Can the Devil Be Saved?

Theological Letters

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Can the Devil be saved?

Such a question might strike one as shocking, maybe even scandalous. An instinctive response might be to dismiss the query as prime facie absurd. However, when we look at this question in the light of the Eastern Church fathers, we find some interesting answers.

Well known is the fact that the Eastern Fathers offer established orthodoxies—that is, right doctrine that a person must affirm if they wish to adhere to the faith once given over to the saints (Jude 1:3). And on contrast to such orthodoxies, they also condemn heresies, which means the choosing of a wrong or false doctrine. Yet, they also offer a third category that sits between these two, namely, theological opinion.

Theological opinion occupies a middle space, being neither mandated by the orthodoxies of the faith, nor condemned as heresy. And when it comes to such topics, which sit in that area of theological opinion, we find a spectrum of answers among the Eastern Church fathers. Surprising though it may seem, the question of demonic salvation belongs to this intermediary realm of theologoumenon (θεολογούμενον).

What we find is that the majority of the Eastern Church fathers definitely side with, “No, it is not possible for the Devil to be saved.” And yet we do find some who wish to say, “Yes, it is possible,” and some who even say it will happen.

Now, what I find particularly interesting is that this divide does not simply create a fork in the road between a yes and a no. Instead, if we look at the “why” behind the yes and no, we find five positions on this topic. What I want to look at today are those five positions and the underlying rationale behind those answers.

The value I see in looking at this question is twofold: First, it not only addresses a rather intriguing topic, but teaches us something about how to think along with the Church fathers. Second, what we find in these fathers tells us something very important about how these fathers understand God. So, with this prelude, let’s turn to the affirmative and negative positions.

I. “No”—Three Arguments for Impossibility

I’m going to begin with the no because, as mentioned, this is the majority position. One of the explanations for answering “no, the Devil cannot be saved” comes to us through a couple of interesting stories about contemporary Orthodox saints, one being St. Paisios and the other being St. Evmenios.

St. Paisios of the Holy Mountain, Mount Athos, is a relatively recent saint. A twentieth-century figure, Paisios was canonized shortly after his repose due to the widespread recognition of his sanctity. There’s a story about St. Paisios where he, filled with the love of God, decides to fast and pray for the Devil—I believe for two weeks. At the close of those weeks, the Devil appeared to him in the form of the head of a dead dog, wagging its tongue at him and mocking him. How St. Paisios interpreted this is that it is not that God is unwilling to save the Devil, but rather, the Devil is unwilling to be saved. ¹

We find a very similar conclusion in St. Evmenios, another very recent Orthodox saint. St. Evmenios was blind, but many of the monks didn’t know this because he would read liturgical texts. When they took him to a physician, the doctor pointed out, “This man is blind. Why are you bringing him to me? I can’t help a blind man!” The monks were shocked. “What do you mean he’s blind? He’s been reading liturgical texts for years.” When they asked him how he’s been reading these texts, he replied, “I use my other pair of eyes,” referring to the eyes of his soul.

Fun as this story is, the more relevant tale, for our purposes, concerns his prayers for the salvation of all. When standing before the altar, St. Evmenios would pray for the salvation of different peoples. He’d pray, “God, save the Orthodox Christians,” and he would hear, “God is pleased.” He would pray, “God, save the Roman Catholics,” and God was pleased. He would pray, “God, save the Protestants,” and God was pleased. He would pray, “God, save the Jews,” and God was pleased. He would pray, “God, save the Muslims,” and God was pleased. He would pray, “God, save the atheists,” and God was pleased. And finally, when he prayed, “God, save Judas and the Devil,” God was displeased. When he asked, “Why is God displeased with my prayer?,” the answer came, “They do not want to be saved.”²

On this telling, the Devil—and the fallen angels with him—can, in principle, be saved, if they would only repent. But they are not willing.

The conclusion echoes something we find in two Eastern patristic figures, namely, John Chrysostom (ca. 347–407 AD) and Maximus the Confessor (ca. 580–662 AD). Chrysostom, when talking about the unpardonable sin—which is not about angels, of course, but about a sin that is beyond pardon (Matt 12:31-2)—points out that Christ never says that the sin is per se unpardonable. In other words, there’s nothing so heinous about the deed that places it beyond the reach of forgiveness. Instead, he points out that Christ says it won’t be forgiven, in this life or the next. Chrysostom’s explanation is that this passage is referring to the sin of unrepentance. Those who commit this sin—which, in context, refers to looking upon the work of the Holy Spirit and concluding that it’s demonic—have become so blind that they will never turn around, and they will never repent. So the sin itself is pardonable, but it won’t be pardoned because those who commit it never turn away from it.³

Along similar lines, Maximus talks about what’s called the gnomic will (γνωμικὸν θέλημα). The term is rather complicated, precisely because it evolves over the course of Maximus’ writings.⁴ But for our purposes here, let it suffice that what Maximus is identifying in this term is the fact that, in the case of creatures—which are beings in process and formed over time, specifically by our own free choice—we have the capacity to either choose the good—which is to say, things in keeping with our telos (τέλος), proper formation, moving us toward perfection. Yet, our free self-determination or self-formation also carries the capacity to turn away from the good and do things that are contrary to nature, things that are corrupting, making ourselves vicious. Such is innate to the nature of creatureliness: the very fact that creatures are developmental beings—beings that must cooperate in our own formation—means that it is within our capacity to move toward proper formation or drag ourselves away from virtue into vice, corruption, and darkness.

And Maximus entertains the possibility that, at some point, the will can become fixed in a twisted or corrupted state. Considering this possibility, we arrive at the same explanation as found in Paisios and Evmenios: While, in principle, the Devil and the demons could be saved, their will can reach a state where it is so twisted that it can no longer turn back. God is willing, but they are unwilling—permanently.

This, then, provides one explanation amongst contemporary Orthodox Saints, which has precedent within the Eastern Church fathers long before them. However, as noted, this is not the only explanation for why the Devil might be beyond redemption.

A second explanation we find in Nemesius of Emesa (ca. 390 AD). Now, Nemesius suggests that the Devil and the fallen angels could have repented for a certain period of time, but at some point, that window of opportunity to repent of their rebellion closed.⁵ So, it is no longer possible—not anymore.

Now, Nemesius doesn’t explain the point, nor does he tell us where this opinion comes from. He appears to be drawing on an existing tradition, and one possible explanation is that it’s related to 1 Enoch. But again, Nemesius neither fleshes out the point, nor does he identify its source. Nonetheless, this reply offers a second possible “no.” Yes, it was possible for the fallen angels to repent for a season, but that season has now passed.

The third explanation is that it is metaphysically impossible to restore the angels. Such is the explanation that John of Damascus (ca. 676–749 AD) gives in his treatise On the Orthodox Faith, where he strives to offer a summary of the consensus of the fathers before him. And we do, indeed, find precedent for this explanation in earlier Eastern fathers, such as Athanasius of Alexandria (ca. 296–373 AD).⁶

John of Damascus states rather plainly what the reason is for the impossibility, namely, angels are simple creatures. This explanation raises two questions: What does it mean to say that an angel is simple? And why would this mean that they can’t be redeemed?

In order to understand John’s argument, we must contrast it with what the Eastern fathers say about the redemption of man. When looking at the Cappadocians—Basil of Caesarea (330–79 AD), Gregory of Nyssa (ca. 335–ca. 395 AD), Gregory of Nazianzus (ca. 329–90 AD)—as well as Cyril of Alexandria (ca. 376–444 AD), we find something rather intriguing in their perspective on why God sentences man back to the dust of the earth after his Fall (Gen 3:19). While these fathers recognize that we can speak about death as an enemy (1 Cor 15:26) or anthropomorphize it as Hades, which swallows men and is vexed by the descent of Christ, they also speak about death as a mercy. And here, what they have in mind is God’s decree that our bodies will deteriorate and return back to the earth.

Why would this be a mercy? The answer is illustrated by both Basil of Caesarea and Gregory of Nyssa in a common analogy: Imagine that a potter is making a vessel out of two different types of substance, and during the pottery making, something goes awry and the substances mingle in a way contrary to the potter’s intent.—In a word, it has been corrupted.—Should the potter fire the pot? Plainly not, since this would make the corruption permanent. Instead, he must separate the two substances and begin again. In other words, in order to fix the corruption, he must unmake the pot in order to remake it anew and properly, free from corruption.⁷

The analogy is meant to illustrate the corruption that sets in with the Fall of man. Man consists of a body and a soul—a higher and lower nature. Our spiritual nature bears the image of God (Gen 1:26-7) and is made to commune with God, partaking of the divine nature (2 Pet 1:4) and attaining immortality and the divine likeness. But we also have a lower animal nature, and the relationship between those is supposed to reflect the higher=lower priority. Just as when a good, wise, and rational man rides atop a horse, it’s suitable that the man should direct the horse rather than vice versa, so in the same way, the higher nature of man is made to order, care for, and raise up the lower nature of man.

We can see this in a question that emerges based on the book of Genesis. In Genesis, the realm of the earth is the realm of mortal things that come from the earth and return to the earth, whereas the celestial realm—the things of heaven—are the things that are immortal and incorruptible. But in the making of man, we discover a merger of the two: man is taken from the dust of the earth, but God breathes into him from heaven, and he becomes a living soul (Gen 2:7).

This raised a question—initially amongst Alexandrian Jews, and subsequently amongst the Eastern Church fathers. To wit: If man is a merger of the mortal things of creation with the immortal things of creation, which one is he? Is he mortal or is he immortal?

The standard reply, found first in Philo of Alexandria (ca. 20 BCE–ca. 50 CE), and then echoed in figures such as Theophilus of Antioch and Nemesius of Emesa, is that man was created neither.⁸ He was potentially mortal and potentially immortal, his will functioning like the fulcrum of a balance scale, deciding which of his natures—the higher or the lower—would rule. So, when man chose to turn away from God, he chose the mortal life of beasts, and his lower nature, which should be subordinate to and ordered by the higher nature, took control. As a result, man’s nature is inverted, his animal passions having unnatural sway over his rational nature, and this corruption gives rise to unnatural passions, which serve as tyrannical overlords, leading him into vice.

Such an inversion is what St. Paul describes when he speaks about the war between the spirit and the flesh (Gal 5:17)—your higher nature (your spirit or mind) and your animal nature (your passions) at war—where you recognize the things that you should do and then don’t do them, and the things that you hate, you do, causing you to cry out, “O wretched man that I am!” (Rom 7:15-24). Such is the predicament of fallen man.

Such corruption is what the aforementioned analogy is meant to illustrate: two substances that have mingled together in a way contrary to the intent of the potter. And so when asking, “What if the potter were to fire the vessel?,” the answer is that doing so would make the corruption permanent. To fix the corruption, the vessel must first be unmade. Such reasoning they see within the Eden narrative: man is cut off from partaking of the Tree of Life (Gen 3:22-4). Why? Lest he live forever in a corrupted state. In other words, heaven forbid that God fire the vessel. So, returning us to dust is read as a mercy: Unmaking man, but unmaking him for a purpose, namely, so that he might be remade anew and properly in the resurrection from the dead—his higher and lower nature in a harmonious relationship reflective of the potter’s intent.

When you see that background, the meaning of John’s claim—namely, angels are simple, so they cannot be unmade and remade—becomes clear. Angels are pure spirits; they are not souls inhabiting bodies. You and I, by contrast, are complex beings: we have a soul and a body, and our body consists of a host parts—bone, muscle, tissue, and so on. In a word, we are complex. But angels, as pure spirits that do not have bodies, are not complex. They are simple beings—one substance, void of parts.⁹

Recognizing this difference, John of Damascus’ case is this. Because angels are simple, there is no way to unmake them and remake them the way you can with man. And for that reason, if they go wrong and become twisted, the corruption is permanent; it cannot be fixed.

These, then, are the three explanations for the negative reply: it is possible to redeem angels, but they’re unwilling; it was possible for a season, but that season has now passed; or it’s simply not possible, not even for God, because angels are innately simple beings that cannot be put right if they go wrong.

Now, I expect the last of these explanations might raise an eyebrow or two. God is omnipotent. Surely, he can do anything, including redeem angels. Is John of Damascus really suggesting that this is beyond God’s reach?

To avoid bogging us down in a lengthy aside about divine omnipotence, I’ll simply point readers to a more extensive treatment of this topic.¹⁰ Suffice it to say for our purposes here: omnipotence, classically defined, is not that God can do anything that one might utter. Instead, the classical Christian view—East and West—is that God can do anything that’s possible. When we utter nonsense, such as God creating a second God, or producing free creatures who are not free to make choices he does not like, or create a metaphysically simple being that can be unmade and remade as though it were complex, we are not in fact speaking meaningfully. We are uttering meaningless nonsense—baldfaced contradictions. So, no, God cannot do such “things” because these sets of words do not rise to the level of a coherent thought for God to do.

So, yes, John of Damascus believes that unmaking a simple substance, like angels, is impossible—in the true sense. Not even God can do it, since the suggestion falls into outright contradiction: That which is simple cannot be unmade.

II. “Yes”—Two Paths Toward the Redemption of Demons

As mentioned at the outset, not everyone amongst the Eastern Church fathers offer a negative reply. Some answer, “yes.” Here, I would divide these into two camps—or perhaps even three, depending on how we’re counting. The first camp isn’t dogmatic about the answer, but it does leave the door open to the redemption of angels.¹¹ And this is where I place Pseudo-Dionysius (ca. 5th–6th c. AD).

Pseudo-Dionysius offers an interesting argument on why corruption can never be permanent. What he argues is that stability or stasis (στάσις)—which is to say, a state of rest—is only arrived at when something has a telos or target. For example, we can talk about an eye moving toward health and wholeness, and when it reaches that point of wellness, there is a certain stasis. Or alternatively, if we think geometrically, we might imagine a poorly drawn circle. We might begin to adjust the points of its circumference until they are all an equal distance from the common center. Upon reaching this equality, our work could rest, having arrived at perfect circularity. But Pseudo-Dionysius points out that corruption does not move toward anything; it moves away from things. So when we speak about sickness, we’re talking about a movement away from health, not toward something else. If we speak about a perfect circle that is somehow corrupted, this corruption is a movement away from perfect circularity, not a moment toward imperfect circularity.

Given that corruption is inherently divergent, then, Pseudo-Dionysius suggests that corruption, having no target or telos, can never reach a point of stability. It is inherently unstable. And for that reason, Pseudo-Dionysius thinks there can never be any permanence to corruption—a permanence that would indicate arrival at its destination.¹²

Now, the context of this point in Pseudo-Dionysius leads me to think he leaves the door open to the possibility of demonic restoration. In other words, the fallen angels didn’t fall toward anything; they fell away. They turned away from God, and from the light of God—the darkness into which they fell being an absence of light, a shadow, not a positive reality all its own. For this reason, there can never be any sort of stasis, as if they’ve reached the perfection of devilry. For they are not moving toward anything but are in retreat from. Such instability, with its lack of permanence, opens the door to the possibility that maybe, just maybe, these fallen angels could turn around and return.

Now, such an answer is far from a dogmatic “yes.” It merely creates an ontological openness to the possibility that maybe the Devil and his fallen angels could be saved, leaving open ended the question of whether they will.

The alternative “yes”es, by contrast, offers a firm, “Yes, the Devil can be saved, and the devil will be saved.” There is a heretical form of this reply, and there are non-heretical form.

The most well-known heretical form of this is found in Origen (ca. 185–ca. 253 AD) and the Origenists. Origen of Alexandria taught a doctrine known as apokatastasis (ἀποκατάστασις). This term is often associated with the doctrine of universal salvation, and it’s true in the context of Origen that the term carries this meaning. But the word itself simply means “restoration” or “cycles,” involving departure and return. So, we can find the word in a medical context where an organ leaves a state of health, moves into a state of sickness, and then returns to a state of health—this cycle being apokatastasis. Alternatively, the cycle of planets that have an origin part, then depart from this origin and return to it is also called apokatastasis. Or diaspora—people who are dispelled from their homeland and then return to it—embody a cycle of apokatastasis. And yes, the term is also used in reference to the Fall and the restoration of man.

In the case of Origen, he has a rather peculiar cosmology, one that would ultimately be condemned as heretical at Constantinople II (553 AD)—the fifth of the Seven Ecumenical Councils.¹³ Origen’s peculiar teaching suggests that all things were originally in a purely spiritual state: God generated a series of souls, and then those souls had a choice whether to cling to God or retreat from God. Those that chose to retreat from God fell away, and this departure was a fall into matter. Corporeal bodies thus represent the degree of one’s departure. Those souls that clung to God remained ethereal, while those that retreated fell into bodies reflective of their retreat. Consequently, the cosmic hierarchy—spanning from the ethereal to the thick and gross, or dense—is the result of this gradated retreat from God. For this reason, Origen carried the peculiar view that demons have dense bodies.

Within Origen’s cosmology, the doctrine of the pre-corporeal soul carried the conviction, not only that souls fell from God into bodies, but also the belief that these very same souls—all of them—would ultimately return to God, being restored to their pre-corporeal state. Apokatastasis in its Origenist context, then, reflects the conviction that God is not only working to restore all things to himself, but will succeed in restoring all creatures to himself, including the Author of Evil.

There were a host of problems with Origenism, which led to its condemnation. But to name just one, Origen’s belief in cosmic restoration was carried an ancillary belief in cosmic cycles. Hence, after the restoration of all things, there remains the possibility, if not inevitability, that they will again fall, only to be restored again. This belief that salvation does not bring a state of rest was one of the many things deemed problematic about Origenism. Hence, Origenistic apokatastasis was amongst the several doctrines of Origen and his followers condemned at Constantinople II.

Now, the Organists were not the only ones to affirm universal salvation. Several early Christian writers and Eastern Church fathers harbored the belief as well. Truth be told, the question of universal salvation is a controversial one and really deserves its own treatment. For a fuller treatment of my position on apokatastasis, universal salvation, and Constantinople II, you can see my theological letter on the topic.¹⁴ Let it suffice, for our purposes here, that I do not think the anathemas of Constantinople II—which are clearly aimed at Origen and the Origenists, like Philoxenos of Mabbug (ca. 440–523 AD)—carry the implication that all forms of universal salvation are heretical. For not everyone who believed in universal salvation believed in the cosmic cycles of Origen or his doctrine of falling and returning souls.

Here, I would point to two figures, one of whom is Gregory of Nyssa, who was referred to as “Father of the Fathers” by Constantinople II. There’s good reason to read Gregory as a universalist, one who believes that God’s efforts to draw all things back to Himself will eventually succeed, and this success will include the Author of Evil, which is to say, the Devil. Another figure who talks this way is St. Isaac the Syrian (ca. 613–ca. 700 AD). St. Isaac, too, speaks about universal salvation—God successfully redeeming all things, including the fallen angels. In such statements, St. Isaac suggests that the demons, having known what it is to experience darkness and to have fallen from the presence of God, will appreciate the light of God more than the angels who never fell.¹⁵

In figures like Sts. Gregory of Nyssa and Isaac of Syria, then, we arrive at a “yes”—an insistence that says not only is it possible for the Devil and his fallen angels to be redeemed, but they will, in fact, be redeemed. God will successfully restore all creatures back to Himself, even the Author of Evil. And we find the same conclusion in other writers who are not deemed saints but are important early Christian writers, nonetheless, such as Clement of Alexandria (ca. 150–ca. 215 AD).

There you have it: five positions on the question “Can the devil be saved?” On the one side, we have the majority position, which is “no,” and under this negative reply, we find three different explanations as to why: One that says the Devil could, in principle, be saved, but he is unwilling. The second that says there was a season in which the Devil could have repented, but that season is now closed. And the third, which says it’s metaphysically impossible to restore an angel who has been corrupted.

On the “yes” side, we find, on the one hand, a certain ambiguity—a way of thinking about corruption that argues it can never be permanent. On the other hand, we find a more affirmative “yes,” which forks into both heretical and non-heretical waters. The heretical “yes,” as I said, is the Origenist answer, which appeals to cosmic cycles where the Devil will be restored, but creatures will fall again. The second “yes,” by contrast, appears in figures like Sts. Gregory of Nyssa and Isaac of Syria, suggesting that the infinite love of God, which pursues all creatures, will at some point succeed in restoring not only all of humanity but also the fallen angels.

III. What This Spectrum Reveals About the Nature of God

Now, I said that there’s a twofold value in this topic: the one that it tells us something about how to think along with the fathers, and the second which tells us something about the nature of God. Let me begin with thinking along with the fathers.

When considering the various positions, it would be easy enough to shrug and say, “I suppose there’s five different positions on the question, so who knows what the answer is?” But there is some amount of continuity across all of these answers—a continuity that is very important and offers us insight into what is common amongst the fathers.