On Apokatastasis and Universal Salvation

Theological Letters

The following letter is to “Ari,” who came across my theological letters online and reached out to me. He shared with me his appreciation for my documentary, “Becoming Truly Human,” and mentioned that he had been dialoguing with a friend about my post On Free Will. The discussion concerned the ramifications for “apokatastasis,” by which “Ari” meant universal salvation. This prompted me to reply by discussing some unfortunate conflations I’ve noticed in contemporary dialogue about universal salvation generally and apokatastasis specifically. Please subscribe and support my work! 

Dear “Ari,”

Thank you for your kind words about my work. In your email, you mentioned apokatastasis. I presume that by this term you mean universal salvation. Is that right?

I ask because I’ve noticed an unfortunate tendency in contemporary literature to equate these two terms. I say this is unfortunate because apokatastasis and universal salvation are not equivalents. Origenistic apokatastasis certainly presumes universal salvation, but not all forms of universal salvation presume apokatastasis.

The word apokatastasis is just a word for cycles. In medicine, it refers to the movement of a bodily member from healthy to unhealthy and back; in astronomy, it refers to the cycle of a celestial body back to its original place; it is used to refer to diaspora who return to their homeland; in Stoic philosophy, the term indicates the return of planets to the place they occupied at the creation of the cosmos; and in NeoPlatonism, it is used for the restoration of souls to their divine source.¹ In the context of Christian soteriology, Acts 3:21 uses the word to refer to the “restoration” of all things, presumably akin to the word use in medicine, where a sick member returns to health. However, in the 6th century, the term became synonymous with the universalism of Origenism. As I’m sure you know, within Origenism, apokatastasis refers to the spiritual or cosmic cycle in which souls are generated without bodies; some fall into bodies; then these fallen souls eventually return to their divine source. As I said, and as I’m sure you know, such a return did indeed presume universal salvation — all souls eventually achieving this return to God. But Origenistic apokatastasis also presumes a host of other things that universal salvation does not entail.

Perhaps the best place to begin to clarify the point is the Origenist view of matter. (Note that throughout I will more often refer to “Origenism” or “Origenist views,” since not all of the Origenist doctrines that raised the ire of Justinian, et al., are attributable to Origen himself.) Origenism carried some peculiar commitments concerning matter. The thicker the matter, the less Godlike the being is; the more ethereal the matter, the more Godlike the thing is.

Like many features of Origenism, the concept has a counterpart in Orthodox thinking and is not entirely without merit, but it takes the idea in a problematic direction. In the so-called “Great Chain of Being” (i.e., the world consists of a hierarchy of beings of ascending perfections, stretching from rocks to plants to animals to humans to angels), things lowest in the Chain, such as rocks, are indeed composed of extremely “gross matter” (pachu hylikon) while things highest in the Chain, namely angels, are subtle and ethereal.² The Origenists were not wrong to recognize this difference; plenty of Eastern fathers speak about this ontological hierarchy. Moreover, the difference between the organic and the spiritual, the dissoluble and the indissoluble, the mortal and the immortal is presumed in the rather common patristic doctrine of man as microcosm (i.e., man is a merger of the organic and the spiritual elements of the Chain, joining in one being all that God has made). The problem with the Origenist view was not the recognition of a hierarchy of beings or of the material differences between lower and higher beings. The problem was that the Origenists made creaturely rebellion the mechanism for the hierarchy. That is to say, in Origenism, all souls were originally created bodiless and in communion with God; each either clung to God or retreated from him; retreat from God was what plummeted souls into matter, each receiving a body suitable to their chosen condition and reflective of their degree of retreat.³ 

The point is reflected in the Origenist view that demons are composed of gross matter, as contrasted with the holy angels who remained ethereal. This perspective is also reflected in various aspects of Origenist soteriology. For example, spiritual ascent is presumed to bring about a purely spiritual body, one that is subtle or ethereal.⁴ As with the Chain of Being, the point is not entirely without precedent amongst the other fathers; the Eastern fathers do say that the body undergoes metamorphosis (metastoicheioō) through deification and ultimately in the resurrection.⁵ As Gregory of Nyssa explains to Apollinaris, the difference between Christ's two natures becomes increasingly slight as he transfigures his flesh. But in Origenism, the claim becomes far more extreme. Didymus the Blind (ca. 313-98 A.D.) and Philoxenus of Mabbug (ca. 440-523 A.D.) suggest that the resurrection is purely spiritual, and Evagrius Pontus (346-99 A.D.) advocates the eventual destruction of fleshly bodies. Such claims are not even the most extreme. In both Didymus and Stephen bar Sudaili (ca. 480-543), the spiritual ascent of souls is borderline Hindu, such that souls disappear back into God without multiplicity or differentiation, akin to the disappearance of the self into Brahman.⁶

Added to all of this were other, more subtle problems that often go unnoticed but are equally significant. Maximus the Confessor worries that if souls existed in communion with God before their enfleshment and then fell, as Origenism suggest, what is to prevent souls from falling again after their reconciliation to God?⁷ The critique is subtle but important. Allow me some latitude to explain.

I’ve published numerous articles about the fact that the Eastern Church fathers saw the corruptibility of creatures as just as problematic as actual post-Fall corruption. By way of background, within the Arian controversy, a metaphysical commitment emerges that is central to Eastern patristic thought. To wit: every creature qua creature is mutable and therefore corruptible. The rationale is this. Creaturely existence begins with a movement into being. Such a movement is a mutation, namely the transition from not-yet-something to something. For this reason, every creature is mutable (alloiōtos) of metaphysical necessity. Why? Because creaturely existence always begins with mutation. Hence, to be created is to be mutable.

Now, mutability or change can be either positive or negative. Positive mutation, called generation, is where the creature becomes more fully itself, moving toward proper formation in accord with its teleological ends. Negative mutation, called corruption, is any divergence from proper formation. In the case of irrational organisms, generation and corruption are primarily matters of form and function: i.e., whether the organism is fully and properly formed and functional as determined by its nature and teleology. In the case of rational creatures, however, moral and spiritual qualities enter the picture. Rational beings, as images of God made to participate in God, can and should cling to God, thereby acquiring moral and spiritual goods. But as free, self-determining entities, we can turn away from God and become morally and spiritually corrupt or malformed. The very mutability that makes it possible for creatures to become Saints also makes it possible for us to become devils.

In short, central to Eastern patristic thought is the idea that creatureliness entails mutability and mutability entails corruptibility. And such entailments are metaphysical necessities that not even God can make otherwise. This is precisely why, within the Arian dispute, we see the charge again and again that if Arius is correct that the Son was created, then it follows that the Son is also mutable and corruptible.⁸

This metaphysical necessity is what sets the stage for the Eastern patristic understanding of Christianity generally and its gospel specifically. Let us say that the world did not fall; no angel nor man sinned. If all creatures are nonetheless susceptible to corruption simply by virtue of being creatures, then corruption still looms over the head of all creation like a ticking time bomb. Moreover, even if all of the cosmos is restored from its fall into corruption, what is to prevent us from once again dragging the cosmos into corruption if corruptibility is innate to creatures as such? In short, how can creation ever escape the threat of corruptibility?

The solution, according to the Eastern Church fathers, is that creatures are made to participate in the only nature that is immune to corruption, namely, God’s own. As I’m sure you know, the Eastern Church fathers consistently link the Incarnation, which joins divinity with humanity in the person of Christ, with the hope that we, too, can partake of the divine nature. Such is the hope of the gospel: by partaking of the divine nature through Christ and the Holy Spirit, we can put off corruption for incorruption — both spiritually and physically (in the resurrection) — becoming holy and unturnably good through participation in God’s own incorruption, holiness, and unturnable Goodness.⁹

Now, while it is certainly true that the Incarnation addresses corruption manifest due to the Fall, it is also true that such participation in God was needed before the Fall. For, as explained above, the threat of corruption hung over the head of every creature even before any angel or man corrupted the cosmos. Such a threat can only be undone by creatures partaking of the divine nature. As icons of God, angelic natures and human nature have a natural connection with their divine archetype that enables them and us to partake of divinity.¹⁰ Hence, for those angels that did not fall but clung to God, they are holy and incorrupt by participation in God’s holiness and incorruption. And had Adam and Eve not fallen into sin, they, too, would have become holy and incorrupt by partaking of the divine nature. But with the Fall, man enters an unnatural, corrupt state, and the Incarnation becomes a necessary means of restoring human nature from within, again opening the way back to participation in God.  

All of this is why Athanasius harps on the point that Arius’ Christ, having come into being, is mutable (alloiōtos) and spiritually turnable (treptos). If the Son is a creature, then he is bound by the same metaphysical necessities we are, including corruptibility and spiritual turnability. His goodness is acquired and not his own; he can at best participate in divine goodness and incorruption, but it is not native to his nature, which means his Incarnation is not a bridge to divine incorruption. The point echoes in Alexander of Alexandria and in the anathemas of Nicea itself.¹¹ In the Apollinarian controversy, we hear echoes of the same worry. Contra Apollinaris, Gregory of Nyssa complains that, in denying Christ a human mind, Apollinaris makes the passibility of the Son native to his divine Mind, which is to ascribe mutability and thus corruptibility to the Son of God. So, Gregory argues, Apollinaris, like Arius, undermines our hope of incorruption with such a doctrine.¹²

In the context of Origenism, the worry is the same, namely, that Origenistic apokatastasis undermines the hope of attaining spiritual unturnability and coming to rest in Goodness, escaping both corruption and corruptibility itself. Maximus voices this concern, pointing out that the Origenistic cosmic cycle presumes that we begin at the point of rest; we fall; and then we return to our original state — hence, apokatastasis. But such a vision undermines the hope of incorruption. As such, the vision undermines Christian hope and is utterly contrary to the teachings of the fathers, and here, I am not speaking about universal salvation but about circularity. To wit, the consensus of the Eastern fathers is that the Christian story is linear, not circular.

Consider, for example, the common take on the image-likeness distinction in the East.¹³ When asking whether Adam was created mortal or immortal — a question that emerged because of the microcosm doctrine, which teaches that Adam is a union of the mortal (the earth) and the immortal (the heavens)¹⁴ — a consistent answer from very early on is that he was created neither: Adam was potentially mortal and potentially immortal. That is to say, Adam is a microcosm that joins the organic, dissoluble parts of creation (the mortal) with the higher, indissoluble, spiritual parts of creation (the immortal). Adam's will functioned like the fulcrum of a balance scale between these two, capable of raising up the lower parts of his nature by embracing the higher part of his nature, or dragging down the higher part of his nature by subjugating it to the lower parts of his nature. We find the precedent for this position in Philo of Alexandria, and it then echoes in Christian writers of the East as early as Theophilos of Antioch.¹⁵

This picture of Adam plays into the interpretation of the image and likeness of God. As I’m sure you know, in the Genesis account, God says, Let us make man in our own image and according to our likeness, and then God makes man in his own image; likeness is not repeated. This omission the Eastern fathers take to be significant. The image of God is something innate to the nature of man, referring to our reason and free choice — and in some passages, the invisibility and indissolubility of the soul.¹⁶ But the likeness of God is active, referring to the attributes of God that must be freely and actively acquired through free choice and imitation of God. Hence, Adam was created in the image of God and made to acquire the divine likeness by imitation and participation, but having turned away from his divine archetype, the likeness was never achieved. In short, Adam was made to become something that he never became.¹⁷

This very long prelude is to point out that, for the Christian East, our salvation is not a return to Eden. The Christian narrative, as read by the Eastern fathers, is not one of an idyllic state that was had and then lost; our proper state has never been realized. We are still within the creation narrative, groping toward the making of man, awaiting the eighth day of creation in which the cosmos is finally completed, as Irenaeus and Basil of Caesarea explain. The resurrected Christ is the first fully realized human being to grace the face of our planet — a point John Behr has made in his exposition St. Ignatius of Antioch.

The relevance to Origenism is twofold. First, the Christian narrative, even when culminating in salvation, is not apokatastasis in the sense of a cosmic cycle. For the word would imply we are trying to return to Eden. We are not. What we are made for has never been realized. The narrative is linear, not cyclical.

Second, to claim that salvation is cyclical — that we are seeking to return to a state that has been lost — is to introduce a very serious problem, one that threatens to undermine Christian hope and the gospel itself. To wit, if we began in the state that we hope to attain, and if from this state we fell, then this state does not include unturnability or incorruption — evident in the Fall where we turned from Goodness and were corrupted. This is Maximus’ concern. And the concern, as explained above, is one that is broached again and again in the Christian disputes. Our hope is not just redemption but incorruption and unturnability, a coming to rest in Goodness, immune to retreat. Arianism undermined this hope with its mutable Son of God, as did Apollinarianism, and Origenism likewise undermines it with apokatastasis.

Notice that none of the above problems are about universal salvation per se. One could reject every one of the above points concerning Origenistic apokatastasis (i.e., its view of matter, of pre-existent souls, of ascent and return, of the cosmic cycle) and still affirm that all will be saved. This is why I say that apokatastasis and universal salvation are not the same thing and should not be conflated. Yes, apokatastasis presumes universal salvation, but universal salvation need not necessarily presume apokatastasis.¹⁸ 

Now, as for whether or not Constantinople II condemns universal salvation, for my part, I think there are legitimate questions about the anathemas of the Synod. I believe it’s Richard Price who argues that the anathemas are really just imperial decrees, not synodical declarations, and Norman Tanner’s edition excludes the anathemas altogether, believing the scholarship to favor the conclusion that they do not belong to the Synod at all. In addition, I think folks are quite right to point out the Synod’s exceedingly favorable view of Gregory of Nyssa (as father of the fathers), despite the fact that he harbors universalist tendencies. Such high praise is a strange thing for a Council that has as its goal the condemnation of universal salvation. However, I think that focusing on the anathemas and whether the council did in fact condemn apokatastasis, as if this adjudicates the universal salvation question, misses the point entirely.

Let’s grant for a moment that the fifteen anathemas of the council and the ten of Justinian are all affirmed by the council. Would this tell us the Council’s stance on universal salvation? I don’t think it would. We could say with certainty that Constantinople II condemned Origenistic apokatastasis, along with its cosmology and other idiosyncratic doctrines. But none of these doctrines are entailments of universal salvation. The entailment cuts only one way: apokatastasis entails universal salvation; universal salvation does not entail apokatastasis (all p is q, but not all q is p). Condemning the one does not constitute a condemnation of the other.

To see the point, let’s consider the anathemas. When surveying the fifteen anathemas of 553 AD, canon 1 is a clear condemnation of the cosmic cycles and the fall into bodies, since it focuses on the pre-existent soul and the “monstrous” (teratōdē) doctrine that it returns to this state (apokatastasis). Such a doctrine is also the point of concern in canons 14 and 15, which discuss not only the return of the soul to its pre-existent state (apokatastasis) but the dissolution of the body and the obliteration of worlds that accompanies it. The others anathemas move into even more idiosyncratic territory, such as Christ’s soul pre-existing his body; his crucifixion for demons; planets being sentient; the finitude of divine power, and so on. Hence, the only relevant canons are 1, 14, and 15. But I see nothing in these canons that applies to universal salvation generally; the canons are clearly concerned with the Origenist doctrine of pre-existent souls their return to that state, this being the doctrine that is identified by the term apokatastasis.

Now, there is a second set of anthemas from 543 AD, the ten anathemas against Origen by Justinian. I mentioned scholars who challenge the notion that the anathemas attributed to Constantinople II really belong to the council and, for such scholars, the anathemas of Justinian are even more suspect. But there is a case to be made that these anathemas were presumed by the council, so let’s at least consider what they have to say.

The one Justinian canon that is most explicitly about universal salvation more broadly is canon 9, which condemns the notion that the punishments of the demons and the wicked (presumably “in Hell”) is temporary. A univeralist may be tempted to pass over this canon by restricting its application to Origen, but I do not think this canon is so easily sidestepped. The condemnation does seem generic, not idiosyncratic. So, if ratified by the council, this should give pause about universal salvation more generally. Admittedly, I think the Synod’s disposition toward Gregory of Nyssa problematizes a blanket condemnation of universal salvation, and from what I can tell, Gregory’s hermeneutics could accept canon 9 without denying universal salvation.¹⁹ So, even here, all is not lost for the would-be univeralist. But let’s ignore both points and grant, for the sake of argument, that this canon is utterly incompatible with all notions — Origenist or not — that Hell is temporary. Would this amount to a condemnation of universal salvation? I don’t think it would. And this brings us to one further conflation in the contemporary debate that I think is unfortunate, namely, the conflation of Hades and Hell.

I’ve noticed that the universal salvation discussion seems to collapse the question of postmortem, pre-resurrection repentance, on the one hand, with post-resurrection, post-final judgment repentance, on the other. The flattening of these issues amounts to a conflation of Hades and Hell, since it conflates the question of (a) whether those who have died apart from Christ might repent before the final judgment with the question of (b) whether repentance after the universal resurrection and final judgment is possible. These are two very different issues.

While you can find examples of fathers who believe that the torments of Gehenna are redemptive in nature and thus temporary (e.g., Isaac of Syria),²⁰ I think there is good reason to think that most fathers would reject this idea, perhaps even those with universalist sympathies. When we consider how the Eastern fathers talk about death, we find a consistent theme that the sentencing of the body back to dust is a mercy, aimed at the restoration of humanity. That is to say, it is a step toward restoration, not the cutting off of restorative possibilities.

To explain, Gregory of Nyssa uses a pottery analogy that also appears in his brother Basil. It runs as follows. If a vessel being crafted from two types of material mingles in unintended ways, then the only way one can fix the imperfection is to unmake it, separating the materials from one another, and begin again. To fire the vessel before doing so is to make the imperfection permanent. The picture of mingled substances that Gregory offers illustrates the corruption that set in at the Fall. Our higher and lower natures now relate to one another in ways contrary to God’s intent. The unmaking of the vessel, in which the two substances are separated, refers to the dissolution of the body and the soul’s separation from it. This unmaking of man has as its end our remaking in the resurrection from the dead.²¹ But, of course, in order for this unmaking to succeed in bringing restoration, the soul must be converted, lest we again reintroduce the corruption.

We see this line of thinking play out in figures like Maximus the Confessor, who understands the drowning of those who rebelled in the days of Noah as a redemptive act: They were removed from their bodies — “unmade” — and sat in darkness, so that they might repent at the teaching of Christ.²² We can see the same hinted at by Origen in reference to Pharaoh’s drowning in the Philokalia of Origen. And lest we balk at fact that this suggestion comes from Origen, his Philokalia is a collection of approved passages edited by Basil of Caesarea and Gregory of Nazianzus. So the passage carries the weight of these fathers.

Now, the reason I bring this up is that, if we follow this line of reasoning about the unmaking and remaking of man, we have good reason to think that any corruption that takes place after the vessel is remade and fired will be permanent. In other words, we could reasonably look at the resurrection as the firing of the vessel that solidifies one’s state. This tracks with how the Eastern fathers understand the sentencing of the body to dust in Genesis, which delays the firing of the vessel in the resurrection. On this view, if the soul is not converted before the universal resurrection, then the resurrection permanetizes the corruption. I’m inclined to think that this conclusion is in keeping with the consensus of Eastern patristic thought. If correct, then it would certainly follow that the pains of the wicked that follow from their exposure to the divine glory after the resurrection would also be permanent.²³ In short, the pains of Hell is not temporary, as per canon 9. 

Yet, even granting this point, does this eliminate the possibility of universal salvation? I don’t think it does. For there is still the question of who will repent before the resurrection and final judgment?

If you look at my letter on the Eastern fathers and the harrowing of Hades, you’ll find very stark conclusions amongst these fathers about the effect of Christ’s descent. All have been liberated; the way back to God has been opened to all without exception; Christ’s victory over death is a permanent cosmic event for all people of all times; Christ accomplished this so that all might repent and be saved. Such is the reality of the redemptive work of Christ. Now, whether all of humanity exits Hades and enters life is an open question. But the fact remains that what Christ accomplished is the liberation of all. If any remain in Hades, they remain by choice. On such a view, one cannot even say that Hades is locked from the inside, as the well-known phrase of C.S. Lewis goes.²⁴ For Hades has no gates nor locks. Any who remain are like former prisoners within a prison with no bars, searching for a shadow to hide in to escape the light. But such cowering from the light does not change the fact that the way out has been opened for them, and they are perpetually beckoned to walk out of the prison and enter life — evident in the Eastern patristic tradition that the Apostles continued their Apostolic mission post-mortem to those “under the earth” (i.e., in Hades).²⁵

Now, as I point out in that same letter on Hades, there is a spectrum of positions amongst the fathers on whether the wicked in Hades repented at the preaching of Christ. Some fathers are very pessimistic that the wicked might repent post-mortem; others display universalist tendencies; still others are agnostic.²⁶ But that agnosticism leaves open the possibility of universal repentance prior to resurrection and final judgment. 

My point, in short, is this. One could maintain, as argued above, that final judgment marks the closing of the door on repentance, not because God is unwilling to save, but because the resurrection makes corruption permanent when an unrepentant soul is placed back in its resurrection body. And yet, such a one could also believe (or hope) that all will repent prior to the universal resurrection from the dead. Such a position would reject apokatastasis; uphold universal salvation; be perfectly compatible with the teachings of the Eastern fathers; and not even canon 9 would have nothing to say against such a position. 

I apologize for this very long set of thoughts. I realize that you didn’t even ask! But noticing in your email what appeared to be a conflation of apokatastasis and universal salvation, I could not help but share a few thoughts on this and other conflations I’ve noticed in the contemporary debate. I hope that’s alright.

Sincerely,

Dr. Jacobs

—

Nathan A. Jacobs, Ph.D.
Scholar in Residence of Philosophy and Religion in the Religion in the Arts and Contemporary Culture Program (RACC)
Vanderbilt University, Divinity School
http://nathanajacobs.com
https://vanderbilt.academia.edu/NathanAJacobs

1. Morwenna Ludlow, Universal Salvation: Eschatology in the Though of Gregory of Nyssa and Karl Rahner (Oxford University Press, 2000), p. 39.

2. I discuss the Great Chain of Being at greater length in my letter, “Reflections on the Ontological Argument.”

3. Origen, De principiis, 1.6.2; 1.6.4; 1.7.4; 1.7.5; 1.8.4; 2.2 (PG 11:166a–68c; 169c–70c; 173b–74b; 174b76a; 179a–82a; 187a–87c). This presumption appears in canon 1 of Justinian’s 543 AD anathemas against Origen, and it also appears in the 553 anathemas, e.g., canons 2, 4, and 5. The presumption is woven into the doctrine of the pre-existent soul — condemned in canon 1 (553) — evident in the fact that the return of the soul to its source (apokatastasis) involves the abolition of the bodies taken on in its descent: see canon 14 (also 553).

4. See, e.g., Origen, Contra Celsum, 5.18-23.

5. On this, see my letter “Eucharistic Theories and Christology.” On the change in Christ’s resurrection body as metastoicheioō, see Anastasius of Sinai, Hodegus, 13 (PG 89.209c); Gregory of Nyssa, De vita Moysis (PG 44.336a). On the change in our resurrection bodies as metastoicheioō, see Methodius of Olympus, Symposium, 2.7 (PG 18.60b); Maximus the Confessor, Ambigua (PG 91.1332d).

6. Brian Daley, The Hope of the Early Christian Church (Cambridge University Press, 1991), 90-1, 183-4. Such extreme views appear to the focus of certain 553 anathemas: e.g., canons 14 and 15 and tacitly canon 1.

7. Maximus, Ambigua (PG 91.1069b).

8. On the foregoing points concerning the metaphysics of creatures, the centrality of these metaphysics to Eastern patristic thought, the prominence of such metaphysics in the Arian dispute, and their relevance to how the Eastern Church fathers see Christianity and its gospel, see any number of my works, including “The Metaphysics of God and Creatures in the Eastern Pro-Nicenes”; “Athanasius of Alexandria”; “Cappadocians (Basil of Caesarea, Gregory of Nazianzus, Gregory of Nyssa”; “Created Corruptible, Raised Incorruptible”; or “The Begotten-Not-Made Distinction in the Eastern Pro-Nicenes.”

9. I flesh out this vision of the Christian faith in several places, including: “Athanasius of Alexandria” and “Cappadocians.”

10. I flesh out the connection between the image of God and the capacity for participation in the divine attributes in “The Metaphysical Idealism of the Eastern Church Fathers,” IV.

11. Again, see any number of the articles in note 7 above.

12. Gregory of Nyssa, De vita Mosis (PG 44.300b-1c).

13. For a standard take on the basics of the distinction, see John of Damascus, Expositio fidei orthodoxae, 2.12 (PG 94.920b).

14. See, e.g., Basil of Caesarea, De Spiritu Sancto, 9.23 (PG 32:109b-c); Gregory of Nyssa, De beatitudinibus (PG 44.1272bc); Catechetica magna, 6 (PG 45:25d-28a); Gregory of Nazianzus, Orationaes, 2.17; Maximus the Confessor, Ambiguum, 7.1 (PG 91.1077a-b); Cyril of Alexandria, Commentarium in evangelium Joannis, 10, v.14:21 (PG 74.284a-5c).

15. Philo of Alexandria, De opificio mundi, 135; Theophilus of Antioch, Libri tres ad Autolycum, 2.27 (PG 6.1093b-6a).

16. On this, see my article “On Whether the Soul Is Immortal According to the Eastern Church Fathers.” n. 144.

17. For more on this, see my article “On Whether the Soul Is Immortal,” section IV.

18. I suppose one could say that all forms of universal salvation presume apokatastasis if one is using apokatastasis in the generic sense of “restoration,” as per Acts 3:21. But used in this way, one is merely asserting that apokatastasis is a synonym for sōtēria. True. But this generic use does not carry universal connotations, evident in the fact that Acts adds “all things” (pantōn), which would be redundant if apokatastasis meant “universal restoration.” Apokatastasis only carries innately universalist connotations for Christians in the 6th century context of Origenism.

19. I have in mind here the fact that Gregory consistently points out that when the wicked repent, the wicked are no more. See, e.g., Gregory of Nyssa, Homilies on the Lord’s Prayer, homily 1. For the person is no longer wicked but righteous. Hence, one could affirm that the torments of the wicked are unending in the sense that torment and wickedness are co-extensive. But should the person cease to be wicked, we would not say that the torments of the wicked have ceased. For the man is not wicked. In other words, his repentance has eliminated the referent (i.e., “the wicked”). He is not a wicked man free of torment but a righteous man.

20. Isaac the Syrian, The Second Part, Chapters IV-XLI, 39.17 and 22, in CSCO 555. See also Wacław Hryniewicz, The Challenge of Our Hope: Christian Faith in Dialogue (The Council for Research and Values in Philosophy, 2007), ch. 7.

21. Gregory of Nyssa is far from the only Eastern fathers to see the dissolution of the body in this restorative way. The point echoes in Basil, Cyril of Alexandria, and Maximus the Confessor, to name a few. See my article “On Whether the Soul Is Immortal,” section IV.

22. See my letter Hell, Hades, and Christ’s Descent (Part 1).

23. On the notion that the pains of Hell are not a product of the divine disposition toward the wicked but of the condition of the wicked, see my letter Hell, Hades, and Christ’s Descent (Part 1); see also my letter On Free Will.

24. For those unfamiliar, Lewis’ rather famous phrase is “Hell is locked from the inside.” Admittedly, Lewis here speaks of Hell, not Hades, whereas the latter is the current focus.

25. We could also point here to the Orthodox prayers for the dead as well as the numerous stories of post-mortem repentance throughout Orthodox tradition.

26. These and other details are discussed in greater length in Hell, Hades, and Christ’s Descent (Part 1).