My problem with "confident universalism"

Confidence in what?

My regular readers will have noticed that I am particularly fixated on the topic of sin and hell, and much of my writing could be classified as “hamartiology.” My interest in this dreary subject stems from years of intellectual and spiritual struggle. My conversion to Christianity occurred through my realization that the philosophy of Slavoj Zizek is nothing short of the most profound hamartiology ever conceived, a brilliant systematic exposition of the perverse and contradictory logic of the fallen subject.

Nonetheless, I find myself in a theological milieu where “confident universalism” is all the rage. Recently, after releasing the “tenets of telosbound,” someone expressed their incredulity at how “apokatastasis” was not listed among them. My Substack feed is filled with universalist apologetics, the topic of universalism is a frequent point of discussion in my community, and some of my closest friends are utterly convinced that, on the last day, every “rational being” will experience the bliss of communion with God. They have a whole myriad of philosophical, theological, and historical arguments in their favour—some of which I find intriguing, others I find ridiculous (the historical ones in particular). Regardless, I can never be a “confident universalist” for one simple reason:

To affirm with confidence that “all will be saved” is to affirm with the same confidence that “I will be saved.”

And I am not prepared to make this affirmation.

Do I believe that, in the end, I will be welcomed into the arms of my Saviour? Of course I do. If I didn’t, I would not be a Christian. But my belief—my faith—that God will accomplish His stated will for me does not take the form of confident, rationally demonstrated assertion. Indeed, it does not take the form of an “assertion” at all but rather a hope.

On what basis would I make any confident affirmation of my own inevitable salvation? One may answer with the obvious—“the mercy of God.” But the mercy of God is not, and never was, in question—I am in question. Indeed, my entire life is a question, an ambiguity that God—in His humility—creates the moment He called me into being out of love, a calling that asks—but never forces—a loving response. I suggest that, implied in the assertion of “confidence,” masks a presumption that extends beyond our epistemic limits. It judges the particular (“I”) on the basis of a universal abstraction (e.g. “the mercy of God”). But this is not the Christian way. “Universal” truths (e.g. “God is love”) derive from the particularity of the person of Christ, His concrete revelation in history. This implies, I think, that every evaluation of ourselves must derive from our particular relationship to Christ here and now, that is, in His Church.

To affirm with confidence that I will be saved is to claim a knowledge of myself that I do not possess and have no right to claim. I do not know the depths of my own sin. I do not know what I am capable of becoming, or refusing to become. I do not know whether, in the final hour, I will turn toward the Face that calls me or recoil from it in horror at what its light reveals. On what basis, other than a philosophical/rational argument, could I have absolute confidence in my salvation? It certainly could not come from my own existential/spiritual experience, given that, every day, I continue to turn my face away from His. And yet, everyday, God gives me another chance, and it is on this basis that I hope.

We cannot proceed from the eschaton backwards. We cannot presume to have knowledge of our “end” and make judgments about ourselves upon it. One’s “eschatological self” is not “out there” in some ideal realm that can be rationally known and used to form syllogisms—it is right here, it is me, but as yet incomplete. This life is precisely the creation of our eschatological selves. This is why St. Maximus says that, once we receive “being” from God, we can live rightly (i.e. in communion with Him) and attain “well-being” in this life, or we can live improperly and attain “woe-being.” Critically, Maximus does not deploy a different term to describe our final mode of being—He simply adds “eternal” to it. Thus, he speaks both of “eternal well-being” and “eternal woe-being.” Maximus never says that “eternal-well being” is guaranteed for all rational creatures, instead, he says that it is finally attained through our perseverance (through the exercise of our free will in synergy with God’s) in “well-being” until our Judgment.

A friend of mine recently shared his thoughts on universalism. I found them beautiful, articulating certain intuitions I have had for years but been unable to communicate myself. They deserve to be shared in full:

The paradoxical statements of the likes of Saint Silouan is what I find most satisfying, and probably the only things that have touched me on this problem. His famous “Love could not bear that”, and another one I heard, which may not be from him, but went something like: “the saints in heaven will not stop praying until every soul is taken out of hell”. I find it adequate that the question is not resolved explicitly, as it would kill the mystery of love to turn it into a necessity. These statements only seem to point to the nature of love, its unrelenting charity and concern for the other, and therefore gestures towards a hopeful resolution, directing our attention to the proper place. Hearing someone calling himself a “universalist” gives me a certain uneasiness, as it seems like a performative contradiction, something that cannot be uttered, akin to calling oneself “the most humble man”; it ceases being true once it is uttered. I think that people contemplating such mysteries run the risk of being burned by the light, such as the one who touched the ark or the midwife who went to “check” the Theotokos. I believe one has to embody the (feminine) secret sacred silent space for the mystery to take place, if it is to take place at all. Systematization fills the space of this question with a human logos and desacralizes it.

I’ll be completely honest—if, in the end, all “rational beings” will experience the bliss of deification, I would not be surprised. I have heard many philosophical arguments for “confident universalism” that I find intriguing, if not out right convincing. At the same time, I think that this idea is extremely difficult to justify with Holy Scripture (which takes precedence over every syllogism I happen to find persuasive): why do the “sheep and the goats” go to “everlasting” (aionian) life and “everlasting”(aionion) punishment?, why would it have been “better” for Judas not to have been born?, how can there be an “unforgivable sin” if all will inevitably be saved? And don’t even get me started on the overwhelming consensus of the Fathers (to my knowledge, there is not a single universalist saint in the past 1000+ years), the conciliar decrees, and the liturgical tradition(s). This is why to be a “confident universalist” necessarily puts one at odds with the vast majority of the Church, leading to (Orthodox Christian) universalists often keeping their views a secret, only discussing them with like-minded peers or anonymously on the internet, hiding their real convictions from their priests, mentors and friends, convinced they have discovered a pearl that cannot be cast before swine.

I am confident that all forms of “confident universalism” are spiritually dangerous (some more than others, perhaps), as St. Paisios and other saints have warned. Without naming names, I have judged this by its fruits. I also think that a genuine belief in the possibility of one’s damnation (i.e. the possibility that we can say “No!” to God) is necessary for salvation. And, for this reason, I think that if the Final Day is the one when “all shall be saved”, then all “confident universalism” does is delay it.