I was recently invited to discuss universal salvation for a documentary on the topic, including speakers on both sides of the topic. Against my better judgment I said yes. If you have seen my previous interviews, you know why. I simply do not do well in an impromptu or extemporaneous interview format. I stumble and ramble and meander all over the map. It doesn’t matter how well I prepare, I always end up talking excessively. I checked the thesaurus, and there are some fun words that describe my condition: logorrhea, garrulity, prolixity, loquacity, pleonasm, prattling, maundering, wordage. Perhaps you can think of other words to add to the list.
It’s all very embarrassing. My wife thinks I’m being too hard on myself. Maybe she’s right, but . . . once a neurotic, always a neurotic.
This time I wrote down responses to the expected questions. I knew I could not read my responses or even glance at them during the interview, but I hoped that the sentences would magically flow from the lips. NOT! Different preparation, same result.
But there is a silver lining. I have some material to share with my readers. Without further ado, here is my “impromptu” response to the question: What are the most decisive theological arguments in favor of universal salvation?
Of the many arguments that may be advanced in favor of universal salvation, two, in my judgment, are decisive.
First, God is absolute and unconditional love. We know this by divine revelation. “God is love,” the Apostle John tells us in his first epistle. In saying this, he is summarizing the story of Jesus, culminating in his atoning death on the cross and his triumph over death and evil in his resurrection.
To declare that God is love is to say something both radical and profound about the coinherent communion between the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. God is love not because love is one attribute alongside many other divine attributes. God is love because his very being is constituted by the reciprocal self-giving of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. In the words of Met Kallistos Ware: “God is an unceasing movement of mutual love.”
And therefore to say that God is love is also to say something crucially important about God’s relationship with us. To love someone is to will their good. It is to commit ourselves to their flourishing and happiness. Yet our love is always imperfect, limited not only by our inherited selfishness and greed but also by our finitude and inadequate resources. I may promise to love and cherish my bride for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health—but the vow is always conditioned by my death. Precisely at that point my self-gifting fails and my beloved will be alone once again.
Yet God’s love for humanity never fails, can never fail. He not only wills our happiness and good, but he wills himself as our Good. The Father, Son, and Holy Spirit do not, of course, need humanity for their happiness and bliss, yet they have nonetheless determined to include each of us within their mutual love. By death and resurrection, the Father has adopted us as sons within his beloved Son and wholeheartedly committed himself to the fulfillment of our happiness and bliss.
Consider Jesus’ three parables in Luke 15: the parable of the good shepherd, the parable of the woman and the lost coin, and the parable of the prodigal son. As my former parishioners wilI confirm, I loved to preach on these parables when I was a full-time pastor. Together they reveal the infinite depths of God’s unconditional love for sinners.
- The good shepherd abandons his flock to find the one lost sheep and does not return to his flock until he finds it.
- The woman turns her house upside down to find her one lost coin.
- The father eagerly awaits the return of his beloved son, day after day, and when he finally does return, he runs down the road to greet and embrace him and throws a great feast in celebration.
God is love and his love never fails. He never ceases to will our eschatological and final good. He never gives up on us and will move heaven and earth to accomplish his good will for us and in us. His love, we might say, is omnipotent. It accomplishes what it promises and never returns to him empty.
If what I have just presented is true—and with all my heart I believe it to be so—then how does this truth inform our thinking about the traditional doctrine—or more accurately, doctrines, because at least two doctrines have been taught in both Eastern and Western Christianity over the past two millennia—of hell and eternal damnation? Every doctrine of hell posits the failure of God’s love to accomplish its good purposes, either in time or beyond time. All Christians believe that God offers forgiveness to all who repent of their sins and embrace his love. But eventually there will come a point of final judgment when God rewards the faithful with heavenly blessedness and condemns the wicked to everlasting perdition. At this point the offer of forgiveness ceases to obtain, either because God has withdrawn the offer or because the wicked have reached a state of irreformable obduracy that even God cannot pierce. In both cases, God ceases to will the eternal happiness of his children; in both, his love has failed.
Yet does this make sense given our confession of God’s absolute and unconditional love? Does it make sense given Jesus’s parables of the good shepherd, the lost coin, and the prodigal son? The good shepherd goes out to search for the one lost sheep, but eventually returns to his flock, his head bowed in resignation and disappointment. The women turns her house upside down to find her treasured lost coin, but never finds it. The father waits for the return of his son, but the son never returns and the father dies from his grief. Does this sound like the gospel we are called to preach? Does this sound like the victory of Pascha? Christ is risen, we triumphantly sing (but under our breaths we whisper, but many are damned).
Universalists refuse to accept this long-accepted ending of the gospel story. Love never abandons the beloved, nor is it impotent before our sin and free will.
The second argument might be considered the flip side of the first. If God is our Good, if he has created us for eternal communion with him in the Trinitarian life of the Father, Son, and Spirit, then this implies that he has also given us an insatiable desire for communion with him. As the theologians like to say, human beings are naturally ordered to God as their final end. We are teleological beings. Our lives are directed to him as the Good, even when he seems most absent to us, even when we are disobeying him or hating him or fleeing from him. This is what it means (at least partly, I believe) to be created in the image of God. St Augustine beautifully expressed our innate desire for the Infinite in his Confessions: “You have made us for yourself, O Lord, and our hearts are restless until they rest in You.” We are restless, thirsty beings who live in the liminal space between nothingness and Life Abundant. It is this thirst for heaven, Fr Alexander Schmemann tells us, that makes us human. It cannot be eradicated by our wickedness and sin; nor can it be sated by anything less than the living God himself. “I am the bread of life,” Jesus declared to his disciples; “he who comes to me shall not hunger, and he who believes in me shall never thirst.”
The defenders of hell often tell us that the damned are incapable of altering their orientation to God and therefore incapable of repentance after death. Like the dwarfs in C. S. Lewis’s Narnia chronicle The Last Battle, they have made themselves deaf to the roar of Aslan. Yet why think this is true? If it were true, it would not only call into question the divine omnipotence, but it would mean that the damned have somehow succeeded in altering their God-given nature and had become subhuman or some other species altogether. But that is quite impossible.
Repentance after death, therefore, cannot be excluded—at least not for Orthodox Christians. Two days ago we celebrated the paschal harrowing of hades. When Christ descended into hades and preached to the departed, how many repented of their sins? how many were left behind when Christ left? In his book Christ the Conqueror of Hell, Metropolitan Hilarion Alfeyev shares the testimonies of many of the Eastern Fathers that when Christ descended into hades, all the departed embraced him and ascended with him into heaven. In one of his resurrection kontakia, St Romanos the Melodist personifies hades and puts these words into its mouth:
And now, once a master, I became captive, once a ruler, I turned into a slave. . . . I am entirely naked for he has taken from me all my possessions; he commanded, and suddenly all surrounded him as bees to a honeycomb. And then having bound me tightly, he told them to mock me, and to strike my head and to bend my back, and crush my unyielding heart, exclaiming: “The Lord is risen!”
As the story is told, after shattering the gates of hades and summoning the departed to himself, Christ leaves the underworld and ascends into heaven. But I wonder, is this the best way to think of his victory. St. John Chrysostom writes:
This place of Hades, dark and joyless, had been eternally deprived of light; this is why the [gates] are called dark and invisible. They were truly dark until the Sun of righteousness descended, illumined it and made Hades Heaven. For where Christ is, there also is Heaven.
And so I ask, did Christ conquer hades and death only to create an everlasting hell?