There is a paradox at the heart of faith — the kind that keeps philosophers awake at midnight and theologians bent over candlelight. If God is omnibenevolent — infinitely good, infinitely compassionate — how can He condemn souls to eternal damnation? The very idea feels like a contradiction stitched into the fabric of theology: how can love create a hell that never ends? We are told God’s mercy knows no bounds, yet we are also told of fire that burns without extinguishing. One hand caresses, the other strikes. Which hand belongs to God? And more importantly, can both belong to Him?

The human imagination has always stretched between two poles: light and darkness, heaven and hell, salvation and damnation. These aren’t just theological terms — they are metaphors for the choices we make and the lives we lead. Yet, when religions speak of eternal damnation, the metaphor becomes frighteningly literal: a soul suffering endlessly with no possibility of return.

But here lies the dissonance. If God’s love is like the sun — radiant, infinite, pouring its warmth on all beings without distinction — then eternal hell feels like a black hole lurking beside it, swallowing light and refusing to let it return. Can the same cosmic hand craft both the star and the black hole? And if so, is the sun truly light, or is it just a prelude to darkness?

This is not merely abstract wordplay. It is a philosophical wound. Omnibenevolence implies that God’s nature is love itself — agape, as Christian theology calls it. In the Bhagavad Gita, Krishna speaks of His love as unshakable, declaring, “I am the same to all beings… even if the most sinful worships Me with undivided devotion, he is considered righteous.” That verse alone makes eternal damnation difficult to digest. If even the “most sinful” are not abandoned, then what kind of love damns without reprieve?

To understand the paradox, we must first imagine eternal damnation not as a doctrine but as a reality. Picture a child — not an innocent infant, but a child who has erred, rebelled, and disobeyed a thousand times. A parent, no matter how wounded, may punish, may distance, may even despair. But what parent, truly loving, would lock the child in a burning room forever, with no hope of reconciliation? Eternal damnation is not discipline; it is disownment. And disownment contradicts omnibenevolence. A God who is love cannot shut the door forever — otherwise His love is not infinite, but conditional, brittle, breakable.

Now, defenders of hell often argue: it is not God who damns us, but we who choose damnation. Hell, in this view, is simply the consequence of rejecting God’s love. C.S. Lewis famously wrote, “The doors of hell are locked on the inside.” But does this solve the paradox? Imagine a doctor who watches a patient drink poison, knowing the outcome, and does nothing but say, “That was your choice.” Love is not passive. Love intervenes. If God’s compassion is infinite, wouldn’t it chase us even into the depths of our self-destruction? Wouldn’t Grace batter at the locked door until it opened?

Here is where Hinduism offers a compelling alternative. In the cycle of samsara — birth, death, and rebirth — there is punishment, yes, but never without the possibility of return. Karma ensures that we face consequences, but liberation (moksha) remains open. There is no eternal prison, only a spiral of lessons until the soul learns. Eternal damnation, by contrast, feels like a classroom where the teacher decides that one mistake means no more learning, only punishment forever. Can such a teacher be called just? Can such a teacher be called loving?

Eternal damnation also assumes time as infinite torture. But if God exists beyond time — as both Christian and Hindu philosophy affirm — then why would He design punishment bound to endless time? A Hindu might say: the soul carries tendencies (vasanas), but even the darkest tendencies burn away eventually, like soot consumed by fire. Why would God create a fire that never consumes, never purifies, never ends?

Let me offer an analogy. Think of humanity as a forest. Trees grow tall, some crooked, some straight. Fires sweep through, storms break branches, yet the soil beneath is still fertile. To say that some trees will burn forever without new growth is to deny the very cycle of life. A God of love is like the rain — falling on the crooked and the straight, again and again, until even the most withered tree finds a way to green. Eternal damnation, in this forest, would be like a barren patch deliberately salted by the gardener, never allowed to bloom again. But what gardener salts his own soil if he loves his garden?

Another image: a star collapsing into a black hole. A star, when alive, shines, giving light to worlds. But a black hole swallows everything, even light, leaving nothing to escape. If omnibenevolence is the star — radiant, generous, life-giving — eternal damnation is the black hole: devouring, merciless, final. To say both come from the same source is to say that love, left unchecked, becomes indistinguishable from cruelty. And if that is true, then what meaning does “love” retain?

Now, one may argue: justice requires punishment. Without hell, where is justice for the tyrant, the murderer, the betrayer? This argument has weight. Yet, does eternal damnation deliver justice — or excess? Justice balances scales, but eternal hell tilts them into infinity. It is not punishment proportionate to crime, but punishment without proportion. Even human courts, flawed as they are, recognise limits. A finite life, with finite sins, cannot logically earn infinite punishment. Unless, of course, love itself is finite. But if God’s love is finite, then omnibenevolence collapses.

Contrast again with the Gita’s assurance: “Even if a man of the most sinful conduct worships Me, he should be regarded as righteous.” This is not cheap grace. It is a recognition that love transforms, that even in the last breath, redemption is possible. The Christian parable of the prodigal son echoes this. The son squanders, rebels, humiliates — but the father runs to embrace him, not consign him to eternal fire. If these metaphors are to mean anything, they mean that love never abandons.

Let me risk another analogy, one closer to human life. Imagine a teacher with a student who fails again and again. One teacher expels the student forever, saying, “You had your chance.” Another teacher stays, repeating lessons, adapting methods, believing the student can still learn. Which teacher embodies true love? Which one reflects omnibenevolence?

Or think of medicine. A doctor does not amputate an entire body for a single wound; she heals, bandages, persists. Eternal damnation, by contrast, amputates the soul and calls it justice.

Here lies the crux: eternal damnation reduces love to a transaction. You obey, you are saved. You disobey, you are doomed. But omnibenevolence, if real, is not transactional. It is abundant, reckless even, spilling over the boundaries of the desert. It is the rain that falls on all, the sunlight that warms the saint and the sinner alike. It is Krishna speaking to Arjuna of the grace that covers all sins. It is Jesus dining with outcasts. It is the river that flows even to those who spit in it, because flowing is its nature.

So is God’s omnibenevolence compatible with eternal damnation? The metaphors collapse under their own weight. A star cannot also be a black hole. A parent cannot both love infinitely and disown infinitely. A teacher cannot both believe in growth and shut the classroom doors forever. To affirm eternal damnation alongside omnibenevolence is to affirm contradiction.

Of course, hell may still exist — but not as eternal. Perhaps it is purgative, like fire that cleanses metal. Perhaps it is karmic, like cycles of rebirth. Perhaps it is psychological, the torment of separation from love until the soul learns to return. These models preserve both justice and love. They allow consequences without surrendering compassion. They affirm a God whose mercy is not fragile but inexhaustible.

And perhaps that is the truth: hell is not God’s last word. Love is. The star may collapse, but new stars are born. Black holes may swallow, but even they, as modern astrophysics suggests, may radiate energy back into the cosmos. Nothing is final except transformation. If God is omnibenevolent, then even the deepest darkness is but a passageway back to light.

Theologian Hans Urs von Balthasar once asked, “Dare we hope that all men be saved?” My answer is yes — not because humanity deserves it, but because if God is love, love cannot do otherwise. Love cannot damn eternally. Love cannot salt its own soil. Love cannot collapse into a black hole and still call itself light.

The question is not whether God’s omnibenevolence is compatible with eternal damnation. The question is: what vision of love are we willing to believe in? A love that abandons, or a love that persists? A love that damns, or a love that redeems?

If God is love, then even hell must have an exit.

.    .    .