Softening Eternal Judgment

If Hell Isn’t Eternal, Why Did Jesus Say It Is?

“It is appointed for man to die once, and after that comes judgment.”
— Hebrews 9:27

Death is not a metaphor. Judgment is not symbolic. Scripture speaks with a kind of unflinching clarity that refuses to soften either reality. Yet every generation tries.

The writer to the Hebrews penned these words in the context of a sustained argument about Christ’s superior priesthood and once-for-all sacrifice (Heb. 7:1—10:18). Where the Levitical priests offered repeated sacrifices for sin, Christ offered Himself once, securing eternal redemption (Heb. 9:12). The parallel is exact: as death is appointed once, so Christ was offered once (Heb. 9:28), and judgment follows with the same finality. This is not poetic license. This is theological precision. The author is establishing the unrepeatable nature of both Christ’s sacrifice and humanity’s appointment with death and judgment. There is no second chance, no revision, no escape clause hidden in the fine print.

Recently, a well-known Christian personality sparked a wave of commentary after suggesting that hell may not be an eternal place of torment. Suddenly, the internet was full of confident opinions about death, judgment, and the character of God, some of them shaped more by sentiment than Scripture. I’m no theologian, but when outspoken voices begin to blur the lines on doctrines Jesus spoke about plainly, it’s worth slowing down and asking what Scripture actually says.

The Teaching

The idea that hell is temporary, symbolic, or merely a poetic way of describing earthly suffering is not new. It resurfaces every few years, usually when a public figure says something that sounds compassionate, enlightened, or more palatable to modern ears. This time was no different. The suggestion—implied or stated—was simple: A loving God would not punish anyone eternally.

It sounds humane. It sounds merciful. It sounds like the kind of God we might design if we were allowed to edit the uncomfortable parts of Scripture. But it collapses under the weight of the Bible’s own testimony.

Jesus didn’t treat hell as a metaphor. He didn’t describe it as temporary. He didn’t soften it for the sake of fragile listeners. He spoke of it as a real place, a final destination, a judgment that is both conscious and eternal. The same Jesus who welcomed children (Matt. 19:14), healed the sick (Matt. 4:23), and forgave sinners (Luke 7:48) also warned repeatedly about “unquenchable fire” (Mark 9:43), “outer darkness” (Matt. 8:12; 22:13; 25:30), and “eternal punishment” (Matt. 25:46).

If we trust Him for the parts we like, we must trust Him for the parts we don’t.

The contemporary drift toward annihilationism—the belief that the wicked simply cease to exist after death or after a period of punishment—gains traction not because exegesis demands it, but because human sentiment prefers it. It allows us to reimagine God in more comfortable terms, to soften the edges of divine justice, to make the gospel less offensive to modern sensibilities. But the moment we begin editing Scripture to suit our preferences, we have stopped submitting to revelation and started constructing a god of our own imagination.

The Drift

But why does this teaching keep resurfacing? Why does the suggestion that hell is not eternal find such easy footing in Christian circles? Why do we instinctively reach for a softer doctrine the moment death feels too heavy or judgment feels too severe? What exactly are we protecting—God’s character, or our own discomfort?

If hell is not eternal, then what becomes of Jesus’ warnings? What becomes of His language about “unquenchable fire” and “outer darkness” and “eternal punishment”? Were those exaggerations? Did the Lord of glory resort to fear tactics? Are we prepared to accuse Him of that?

And if the second death is merely nonexistence, then what becomes of divine justice? What becomes of the holiness that burns against sin? What becomes of the cross itself? Why would Christ endure wrath if wrath evaporates? Why would He drink the cup if the cup is empty?

Consider the logic: If the wicked simply cease to exist, then rebellion becomes rational. If unbelief ends in oblivion, then holiness becomes optional. If judgment is temporary, then sin becomes trivial. Who wouldn’t choose their favorite sins if the only cost is a momentary flame followed by eternal sleep?

Is that the gospel? Is that the justice of God? Is that the holiness of the One who is a consuming fire (Heb. 12:29)?

Or is it simply the oldest lie in the world—”You will not surely die” (Gen. 3:4)?

The serpent’s promise in Eden was not that sin would be rewarded, but that it would be inconsequential. That God’s word could be safely ignored. That the consequences He warned of were negotiable, symbolic, temporary. Every attempt to soften the doctrine of eternal judgment echoes that first deception. It whispers that perhaps God didn’t really mean what He said. Perhaps “eternal” doesn’t really mean eternal. Perhaps “destruction” doesn’t really mean destruction. Perhaps we can have our sin and our peace with God too.

But Scripture will not allow it.

The Language of Eternity

Words matter. God chose specific language to communicate specific truth, and when He speaks of eternity, He does not equivocate.

The Greek word rendered “eternal”—aiōnios (αἰώνιος)—appears throughout the New Testament with consistent meaning: unending, perpetual, belonging to the age to come. When Jesus speaks of “eternal life”—zōēn aiōnion (ζωὴν αἰώνιον)—no one interprets this as temporary existence that eventually expires (John 3:16; 17:3). We understand it to mean life without end, participation in the very life of God, existence that stretches into eternity without termination. The same word describes “eternal punishment”—kolasin aiōnion (κόλασιν αἰώνιον)—in the very same verse (Matt. 25:46). The grammar will not permit us to divide what Christ joined in a single sentence. The syntax demands either both be eternal or neither be eternal. To claim that “eternal life” means unending existence while “eternal punishment” means temporary suffering is not exegesis—it is eisegesis, reading our preferences into the text rather than drawing the text’s meaning out.

When Paul writes of “eternal destruction”—olethron aiōnion (ὄλεθρον αἰώνιον)—he describes not annihilation but everlasting ruin, a state of being forever separated “away from the presence of the Lord and from the glory of his might” (2 Thess. 1:9). The destruction here is not cessation but exclusion, not nonexistence but exile, not oblivion but conscious separation from all that is good, true, and beautiful in God. The word “destruction”—olethros (ὄλεθρος)—carries the sense of ruin, loss, and waste, not obliteration. A city destroyed in war does not vanish; it stands in ruins. A life destroyed by sin does not cease; it exists in permanent wreckage.

John’s apocalyptic vision removes all ambiguity: “The smoke of their torment goes up forever and ever, and they have no rest, day or night” (Rev. 14:11). The phrase “forever and ever”—eis aiōnas aiōnōn (εἰς αἰῶνας αἰώνων)—is the strongest expression of unending duration in Greek. It describes not a long time but time without terminus. If this language does not communicate eternity, then no language can.

The Doctrine

What does Scripture actually say? Not what feels compassionate. Not what sounds enlightened. Not what a celebrity implies in a podcast. What does the Word of God declare?

“It is appointed for man to die once, and after that comes judgment” (Heb. 9:27). Not sleep. Not cessation. Judgment.

Jesus speaks of a separation as final as it is eternal. He describes two roads, two destinies, two outcomes. The gate is wide and the way is easy that leads to destruction—apōleian (ἀπώλειαν)—and those who enter by it are many (Matt. 7:13). The gate is narrow and the way is hard that leads to life, and those who find it are few (Matt. 7:14). Both destinations are real. Both are final. Neither is temporary.

When Christ describes the judgment of the nations, He places the sheep on His right and the goats on His left (Matt. 25:31-33). The righteous inherit the kingdom prepared for them from the foundation of the world (Matt. 25:34). The cursed depart “into the eternal fire prepared for the devil and his angels” (Matt. 25:41). The same fire. The same eternity. The same irreversibility. And the verdict: “These will go away into eternal punishment, but the righteous into eternal life” (Matt. 25:46).

Are these metaphors? If so, metaphors for what—something gentler? something softer? something less severe than the words themselves? Why would the Spirit inspire language that sounds eternal if the reality is temporary? Why would God warn with severity if the danger is mild? The answer is He would not. Could not. The God who is truth (John 14:6) does not employ deceptive language. The God who desires all people to be saved and to come to the knowledge of the truth (1 Tim. 2:4) does not exaggerate the consequences of rejecting that salvation. The warnings are proportional to the danger. The language is precise because the reality is exact.

Consider also the parable of the rich man and Lazarus (Luke 16:19-31). Whether parable or actual event, Jesus describes conscious torment, a great chasm fixed between the righteous and the wicked, and the impossibility of crossing from one side to the other. The rich man is not depicted as ceasing to exist—he reasons, remembers, pleads, and suffers. Abraham’s response is not “this will end eventually” but “between us and you a great chasm has been fixed, in order that those who would pass from here to you may not be able, and none may cross from there to us” (Luke 16:26). The permanence is explicit. The separation is irreversible.

And what of the unquenchable fire—to pyr to asbeston (τὸ πῦρ τὸ ἄσβεστον)? The word “unquenchable”—asbestos (ἄσβεστος)—means precisely what it sounds like: that which cannot be put out, extinguished, or terminated. Jesus uses this language three times in rapid succession in Mark 9:43-48, quoting Isaiah’s vision of the wicked whose “worm does not die” and whose “fire is not quenched” (Isa. 66:24). If the fire were temporary, why describe it as unquenchable? If the suffering ceases when the person ceases, why speak of a worm that does not die and a fire that is never put out?

The Cross

And what of the cross? If hell is temporary, then Christ’s suffering is disproportionate. If judgment is symbolic, then His agony is unnecessary. If sin ends in nonexistence, then the Son of God endured wrath for what—a metaphor?

No. The cross is as real as the judgment it satisfies. The wrath is as real as the mercy that absorbs it. The second death is as real as the resurrection that rescues us from it.

When Christ hung on the cross, darkness covered the land (Matt. 27:45). When He cried out, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” (Matt. 27:46), He was not performing theater. He was bearing the full weight of divine wrath against sin—wrath that would otherwise fall on every sinner for eternity. The cup He drank was not shallow. The abandonment He endured was not brief. The price He paid was not symbolic.

The cross makes sense only if hell is eternal. If judgment is temporary, Christ’s suffering is disproportionate. If the wicked simply cease to exist, His agony is unnecessary. If sin ends in nonexistence, then the Son of God endured infinite wrath for a finite consequence—and the arithmetic collapses. Nonexistence requires no substitute. Oblivion demands no atonement. But eternal punishment requires an infinite sacrifice—and only the infinite Son of God could provide it.

The doctrine of eternal judgment does not contradict the love of God; it magnifies the grace of God. It shows us what we were saved from. It reveals the depth of the chasm Christ crossed to reach us. It demonstrates the weight of the wrath He bore in our place. Remove eternal judgment, and you diminish the cross. Soften hell, and you weaken the gospel. Make punishment temporary, and you render grace trivial. If hell is not eternal, the gospel collapses. If judgment is not final, grace becomes sentimental. If sin does not demand everlasting consequence, then the holiness of God becomes negotiable. And if the holiness of God becomes negotiable, then God Himself becomes negotiable.

The Holiness We Cannot Negotiate

Why does eternal judgment feel so severe? Not because God is cruel but because sin is serious and holiness is absolute. We misjudge the doctrine of hell because we misjudge the doctrine of sin. We minimize the offense because we minimize the glory of the One offended.

Every sin is an act of cosmic treason. Every rebellion is a declaration of war against the Creator. Every refusal to worship, obey, and honor God is an assault on infinite worth, infinite goodness, infinite beauty. The severity of a crime is measured not only by the act itself but by the dignity of the one against whom it is committed. To strike a stranger is assault; to strike a king is treason. Sin against an infinite Being carries infinite consequence because the offense is measured against the infinite worth of the One offended.

This is why the gospel is so breathtaking. This is why grace is so astonishing. This is why the cross stands as the defining moment in human history. God did not minimize sin or soften justice to make salvation possible. He satisfied both. He absorbed the wrath. He paid the price. He drank the cup. And He offers freely to all who come to Him in faith the righteousness they could never earn and the mercy they could never deserve.

But if hell is not eternal, then none of this makes sense. If judgment is temporary, then the cross is excessive. If sin is trivial, then grace is unnecessary. If the wages of sin is not death but merely a long nap, then why did God send His Son to die?

The Inescapable Appointment

If death is appointed, who appointed it? If judgment follows, who judges? If Scripture speaks plainly, who are we to revise it? What authority do we possess to redraw the boundaries of eternity because a public figure spoke carelessly or because the doctrine makes us uncomfortable?

If hell is not eternal, why does Jesus warn as if it is? If judgment is not final, why does the New Testament describe it in terms that leave no room for reversal? If the second death is merely sleep, why does the Bible speak of it as separation, exclusion, and destruction that never resolves into rest?

And if sin carries no everlasting consequence, then what exactly did Christ save us from? What did He bear? What did He endure? What cup did He drink? What wrath did He absorb? Why the cross at all?

These are not academic questions. They are the questions that determine whether we believe the God who speaks or the god we imagine. They determine whether we submit to revelation or sentiment. They determine whether we take Jesus at His word or reshape His words to fit our preferences.

“It is appointed for man to die once, and after that comes judgment.” That is not cruelty. That is reality. That is the truth spoken by the God who does not lie (Titus 1:2). And the same God who warns of eternal judgment also offers eternal life—not by minimizing sin, not by softening justice, but by satisfying it in His Son.

If hell is eternal, then grace is astonishing. If judgment is real, then mercy is breathtaking. If the second death is final, then the resurrection of Christ is the only hope strong enough to stand against it.

And if that is true—and Scripture insists that it is—then the worst thing we can do is silence the warnings God Himself has spoken. The second worst thing is to replace them with something safer, softer, or more palatable.

Death is appointed. Judgment is certain. Eternity is real. And Christ remains the only refuge. The God who appointed death once and judgment after is the same God who appointed His Son as the once-for-all sacrifice—sufficient, final, and eternal.

---

If death is appointed and judgment follows, then the only safe place to stand is in the truth God has spoken—not the version we wish He had said.