A God of Wrath or Love?
The Traditional Salvation Formula: Is It That Simple?
The dominant narrative of what one must do to be considered a Christian is often presented like a simple transaction or contract:
(1) Admit you're a sinner; (2) Repent of those sins; and (3) Believe that Jesus' death on the cross covers your sins. Say the right words, and—bam!—you're saved from eternal torture in hell.
But how do you know if you really believe? Is there a belief-o-meter somewhere? If salvation is contingent on truly believing, how can anyone be certain they’ve met the requirement? No one can force themselves into belief—it’s not like flipping a switch. We can say we believe and try to mean it, but what if that narrative stirs doubt or even unease deep within? Does questioning it mean rejecting Christianity altogether, or is there another way?
Fear vs. Love: How We View God
We need to step back for a moment from the spiritual transaction and go back in history to learn more about how we got here.
Jonathan Edwards, the fire-and-brimstone preacher from the 18th century, didn’t hold back when he described humanity as 'sinners in the hands of an angry God.' That terrifying image has been burned into the psyche of many Christians, especially Protestants, making God seem more like an unpredictable tyrant than a loving creator. When we think of God under such a narrative, we may picture a Zeus-like figure—an old man with a flowing white beard, perched on a celestial throne, gripping lightning bolts, ready to hurl divine punishment at the slightest misstep. A deity who is eternally on edge, waiting for us to fail so that he can dole out retribution. But is this really the God revealed in Jesus?
Now, contrast that with Albert Einstein, who famously posed the question, 'Is the universe a friendly place?' He wasn’t making a theological statement but challenging how we fundamentally perceive reality. That’s quite the shift—from dangling over the flames of divine wrath to contemplating whether existence itself is built on trust or fear.
That tension shapes how many of us see God—and how we navigate life and faith. If we believe the universe is out to get us, we live in fear, constantly bracing for disaster. But if we believe the universe—and by extension, God—is good, then we can move through life with trust and peace. The way we answer this question isn’t just philosophical; it shapes how we experience everything, from our relationships to our deepest struggles.
Are we clinging to an image of an angry, vengeful God, or are we willing to embrace a God of radical love and grace?
Where Did the Idea of Divine Wrath and Sacrifice Come From?
A common Christian teaching, known as substitutionary atonement, suggests that Jesus had to suffer and die to satisfy God's justice — that someone, that is Jesus, had to pay the price for human sin. That's right—the argument is that Jesus has to rescue us from God. But if God's justice demands punishment, is He really free to forgive? Or is He bound to some cosmic rulebook that even He has to follow? Doesn't God get to make the rules, and does this particular rule sound like a God of infinite love?
Regardless, substitutionary atonement became dominant in the 11th century, but it was not the only interpretation within Christian tradition. In fact, earlier Christians largely saw Jesus’ death not as a transaction to appease an angry God, but as a profound revelation of God’s love for humanity. The alternative view is that Jesus’ death was not about satisfying divine wrath, but about God stepping into human suffering to transform it. Since this perspective challenges the majority view today, it’s important to explore its reasoning and why it has been largely forgotten
Jesus’ death was not about fulfilling a cosmic ledger of sin and payment, but about revealing the depth of divine love—a love willing to endure human pain, rejection, and even death itself. His crucifixion stands as the ultimate act of solidarity, proving that God is not distant from our suffering but fully present in it.
The truth is, we sin because we are suffering. Sin is not just breaking a rule; it is the result of disconnection—from God, from others, and from our true selves. And what heals disconnection? Not punishment, but restoration. Jesus understood this, so he didn’t come to condemn—he came to enter into suffering with us, fully embracing our pain without falling into sin or separation. In doing so, he showed us the way to healing, reconciliation, and divine love in its purest form.
When Jesus was being tortured on the cross by the Roman empire and religious leaders who conspired against him, he likely could have called angels from heaven to rescue him and wipe out his executioners—thus exacting vengeance for the wrongs committed against him. He could have transmitted his pain to his persecutors and to humanity. Instead, he demonstrated surrender by laying down his life, and he was transformed through it in resurrection.
Through the cross, Jesus exposed the systems of violence, injustice, and retribution that humanity had long accepted, revealing a radical redefinition of power and justice. Instead of asserting dominance, he chose surrender; instead of meeting violence with vengeance, he met it with forgiveness. In doing so, he dismantled the very idea that justice requires punishment and proved that true power is found not in control, but in self-giving love that transforms rather than condemns.
His death was the moment where God absorbed the worst of human cruelty, yet responded with mercy, forgiveness, and resurrection. In this way, the cross isn’t about appeasing divine wrath—it’s about breaking its grip. It’s not about punishment but renewal. It’s not about death but resurrection. And it’s not about settling a debt; it’s about love given without condition, without limit, and without end.
Before we dive into deep theological debates, let’s rewind and ask: Where did this whole idea of divine wrath and sacrifice even come from? Ancient cultures across the world believed that the gods were easily offended and needed constant appeasement—whether through crops, animals, or, in the most extreme cases, human sacrifices.
The greater the sacrifice, the greater the supposed favor from the gods. If rain was needed for crops, sacrificing one’s most beloved possession—such as a firstborn son—was seen as the ultimate demonstration of devotion. The logic was clear: the more it hurts, the more it proves your loyalty, and surely the gods would reward such painful devotion. This was the foundation of a transactional, tit-for-tat—quid pro quo—view of the divine.
This mindset wasn’t confined to a handful of civilizations—it was a nearly universal way of thinking, shaping the religious and cultural frameworks of ancient societies. The belief that suffering and sacrifice were necessary to earn divine favor influenced how people approached God, often leading to elaborate systems of atonement.
Even in the Old Testament, sacrificial practices were deeply ingrained in Israel’s worship, though prophets like Hosea and Micah later emphasized that God desired mercy and justice over ritual offerings (Hosea 6:6, Micah 6:6-8). By the time of Jesus, the temple system had become the economic and religious heart of Jerusalem, with much of the city’s commerce revolving around sacrifices, offerings, and religious transactions. The idea that one had to offer something—whether wealth, grain, or blood—to remain in God's favor was woven into the very fabric of society.
A Shift from Sacrifice to Mercy
One of the most striking examples of the early sacrificial mindset in the Bible is the story of Abraham and Isaac (Genesis 22:1-14). Abraham, following the sacrificial norms of his time, prepares to offer his son to God—because that's what gods of the day asked of people. Abraham believed that it also was being asked of him. But at the last moment, our true God intervenes, providing a ram instead—marking a dramatic shift away from human sacrifice toward divine provision and mercy.
Many preachers and theologians argue that this was merely a test of Abraham’s obedience, as if God needed proof of his faithfulness. But does an all-knowing God really need to run experiments to see if someone is loyal? That would be like a teacher handing out surprise exams even though they already know who studied. Does an all-knowing God really need pop quizzes? Or is it more likely that the ancient writer of this story genuinely believed God asked Abraham to do this, because that was their culture? It was what gods of the time were expected to demand?
Just because it's in scripture doesn’t mean it must be read as a literal, historical event. After all, the idea that every word of the Bible must be inerrant and historically precise is a relatively modern concept, largely popularized by Protestant fundamentalists in the late 19th and early 20th centuries. Earlier Christians read scripture through a more nuanced, allegorical, and metaphorical lens, rather than demanding rigid literalism. If God is love, then perhaps the real test wasn't for Abraham—it was for humanity—to help us realize that God never demanded child sacrifice in the first place. That is not God's nature, even though it was human nature to assume so. People often projected their own expectations of gods onto Yahweh - just like we do today.
Did Jesus have Anything to Say About Atonement Theology?
Yes he did! Clearly and directly. You probably recall the most important sermon in the life of Jesus: The Sermon on the Mount. Throughout the sermon, Jesus was challenging the Jewish law and the Hebrew scriptures. The law was not big on mercy - it was all about justice and rendering the appropriate punishment. Atonement, the concept of making sure that the punishment is at least equal to the crime, was important Jewish theology. The appropriate debt or price for the offense had to be paid. Deuteronomy 19:21 states: "Show no pity: life for life, eye for eye, tooth for tooth, hand for hand, foot for foot." Jesus clearly stands against this atonement theology, "You have heard that it was said, ‘Eye for eye, and tooth for tooth. But I tell you, do not resist an evil person. If anyone slaps you on the right cheek, turn to them the other cheek also" (Matthew 5:38-39).
Atonement would be about slapping the guy back, unless you could find someone else that would take the slap for you, and that would be substitutionary atonement. It's a tit-for-tat, zero-sum-game or perspective. But just to make sure that the crowd understood that atonement theology was not the heart of God, Jesus doubled-down with several other examples of offering mercy instead of atonement: "And if anyone wants to sue you and take your shirt, hand over your coat as well. If anyone forces you to go one mile, go with them two miles. Give to the one who asks you, and do not turn away from the one who wants to borrow from you" (Matthew 5:40-42).
Jesus completely flips the script. He challenges the whole transactional system, quoting Hebrew scripture and making it clear that God isn’t interested in sacrifices at all: "I desire mercy, not sacrifice" (Matthew 9:13, Hosea 6:6). In other words, God isn’t running some cosmic trade-off system—He’s after something much deeper: relationship, transformation, and grace.
Jesus embodied this in his actions—eating with sinners, healing outsiders, and welcoming those the religious elite had written off. He didn’t require people to get their theology in order before he embraced them. Instead, he met them in their brokenness and offered restoration, not punishment. His parables, such as the Prodigal Son (Luke 15:11-32), emphasized radical grace over rigid fairness, showing that God is more concerned with reunion than retribution.
This message was deeply countercultural, especially in a world accustomed to religious sacrificial transactions and strict moral codes. But Jesus didn’t come to reinforce that system—he came to upend it. His entire life and ministry pointed to a God who isn’t keeping score, but rather inviting us into a love that transforms, not condemns.
Anselm and the Shift to Penal Substitution
One of the biggest theological plot twists in Christian history happened in the 11th century, thanks to Anselm of Canterbury. Before him, the dominant belief was that humanity’s sin created a debt owed to the devil—NOT to God! This is not surprising given the mindset of the sacrificial culture previously discussed. Because of its cultural relevance, there is a lot of language in the Bible that talks about "sacrifice," and "ransom," and "paying the price," which at times sounds more like something the devil would demand - rather than a God of love. For example, Mark 10:45 states, 'For even the Son of Man did not come to be served, but to serve, and to give his life as a ransom for many.' Similarly, 1 Timothy 2:5-6 describes Jesus as the one 'who gave himself as a ransom for all people.' These verses use transactional language, but they interpreted such scriptures as a ransom to be paid to the devil. But Anselm changed the entire framework.
Anselm of Canterbury (1033–1109) was a highly influential theologian and philosopher, serving as the Archbishop of Canterbury and playing a key role in shaping medieval Christian thought. He is often regarded as the 'father of scholasticism' for his rigorous application of reason to theology.
In his 1098 treatise Cur Deus Homo ("Why Did God Become Human?"), he introduced a radical shift in atonement theory. He argued that sin was not just a moral failure but an offense against God's honor, necessitating a form of repayment to restore divine justice. In this framework, Jesus, the beloved Son, became the sacrificial lamb—not to defeat the devil, as many earlier Christians believed, but to satisfy God’s supposed demand for justice through a violent sacrifice.
This single theological work became one of the most influential—and arguably most unfortunate—writings in church history, profoundly shaping Western Christianity’s understanding of salvation for centuries to come.
This idea took root in the Catholic Church and became the majority view. And, unfortunately, the Protestant reformers didn’t think to question it—they just packed it up and took it with them. Enter the penal substitutionary atonement model, later expanded by John Calvin and others in the 16th century, which profoundly shaped Western Christianity’s understanding of salvation.
Apparently, substitutionary atonement wasn’t quite terrifying enough, so they decided to supercharge it by adding 'penal'—just to make absolutely sure everyone understood it was about punishment. And not just a tit-for-tat punishment, but a punitive punishment. So instead of an "eye for an eye," or a "slap for a slap," this is about ten slaps to punish for the one slap. Or in the case of "eternal" punishment, you get slapped for an eternity to pay for the one slap. Because nothing says 'God is love' quite like a cosmic courtroom demanding punitive wrath before forgiveness can happen.
But here’s the real question: Does this version of God align with Jesus' message? If God is truly loving and merciful, why would He require violent and bloody payment to forgive us? Wouldn’t that make God bound to some higher principle of justice rather than being the source of justice itself? This shift has shaped Christian thought for centuries, but it’s worth asking: Was this ever really the heart of the Gospel? And for our purposes, if early Christians didn’t believe God was owed a ransom for our sins, do you have to believe that narrative to be a Christian?
Jesus’ Message: Grace, Not Condemnation
If Jesus had a business card, it might read: 'Radical Love, Inc. – Healing, Forgiveness, and Restoration. No Fine Print, No Condemnation.' And he backed it up. When nailed to the cross, he didn’t demand theological statements from his executioners. He simply said, 'Father, forgive them; they don’t know what they’re doing' (Luke 23:34). No doctrinal test, no altar call—just grace. If that’s how Jesus operated, shouldn’t that tell us something about the nature of God? If Jesus is the full revelation of God, then God must be a being of infinite love, not retribution. In fact, Jesus told us to 'turn the other cheek' (Matthew 5:39), to 'forgive seventy times seven' (Matthew 18:22), and to love our enemies (Matthew 5:44). He asked this of us, yet somehow we’re supposed to believe that God can’t do it? If we, as imperfect humans, are expected to extend forgiveness, why would God—whose very nature is love—operate on a stricter, more unforgiving standard that requires a violent blood sacrifice?
Scripture affirms that God’s love is steadfast. "God is love. Whoever lives in love lives in God, and God in them" (1 John 4:16). Lamentations 3:31 reinforces God's perspective regarding grace and not eternal judgement: "No one is cast off by the Lord forever." Another verse that highlights God's boundless love is Psalm 136:26: "Give thanks to the God of heaven. His love endures forever."
What is Hell, Really?
Hell is one of those topics that gets a lot of airtime, but what exactly is it? A torture chamber? A fiery pit? A DMV line that never moves? Pope John Paul II, in a 1999 address, stated that hell is not a physical place but 'the state of those who freely and definitively separate themselves from God.' Similarly, Pope Francis has described hell as 'not a place but a state of the heart,' emphasizing the idea that separation from God is a self-imposed exile rather than divine punishment.
This aligns with how Jesus spoke about it. The word 'hell' in the Bible primarily comes from three terms in Hebrew and Greek: Gehenna, Sheol, and Hades. Jesus’ go-to term for hell in Greek was Gehenna—which, fun fact, was an actual garbage dump outside Jerusalem where trash was burned (see Matthew 5:22, Mark 9:43). Historically known as the Valley of Hinnom, this wasn't just any landfill—it was a cursed, foul-smelling pit of smoldering decay, a place where refuse and even the remains of criminals were discarded, symbolizing complete rejection and ruin. And it was outside of the safety of the walls of Jerusalem.
Jesus wasn’t giving a geography lesson on the afterlife; he was using a vivid, real-world image to illustrate the self-destructive consequences of rejecting love and embracing separation. Just as people could physically walk into Gehenna and experience its filth and decay, Jesus warned of the spiritual equivalent—choosing a path that leads to inner ruin and self-imposed exile from God’s grace.
By placing Gehenna in its proper historical and cultural context, we can see that Jesus wasn’t issuing a cosmic threat but rather an urgent call to transformation. He was inviting people to step out of the cycle of destruction and into the safety of divine love—here and now, not just in some afterlife scenario.
When we recognize Jesus' use of metaphor, it becomes clear: he wasn’t describing a distant realm of eternal torment, but painting a picture of the soul-wasting devastation of choosing separation from God. Jesus loved to teach through parables, using vivid imagery and relatable stories to convey deep truths: 'I will open my mouth in parables, I will utter things hidden since the creation of the world' (Matthew 13:34-35). Perhaps Jesus wasn’t describing a literal place of endless torment but offering an analogy for the spiritual consequences of living outside of the safety of God’s love and grace.
In Jewish tradition, Sheol referred to a shadowy, neutral place of the dead rather than a place of punishment. Hades, the Greek equivalent of Sheol, was understood as the realm of the dead but not as a place of eternal torment. The idea of hell as a fiery, endless torture chamber emerged much later, largely influenced by medieval literature—particularly Dante’s Inferno—rather than biblical teaching or Jewish tradition.
Dante’s Inferno, written in the early 14th century as part of The Divine Comedy, created a lasting and terrifying vision of hell. His vivid imagery, depicting hell as nine descending circles of increasingly severe punishments, became deeply embedded in Western thought. While intended as an allegory of sin and its consequences, many took it literally, and his depiction of a highly structured, torturous hell shaped Christian imagination for centuries. The idea of divine justice as retributive punishment became far more prominent after Dante, reinforcing fear-based theology rather than the biblical emphasis on mercy and restoration.
The well-known Protestant C.S. Lewis, in The Great Divorce, presents hell not as a final destination but as a self-imposed exile where souls remain only because they refuse to accept God's love. Unlike the traditional Protestant Evangelical view of hell as an irreversible state of torment, Lewis' depiction suggests that people may choose grace—even after death. Many Christians admire Lewis’ works, yet they often deny his likely view that heaven may still be accessible at any time, including beyond this life.
Does Death Really End the Chance for Redemption?
If we actually take Romans 8:38-39 seriously—that nothing, not even death, can separate us from God’s love—then fear-based theology starts to crumble. And what about Philippians 2:10-11 which states that "At the name of Jesus every knee shall bow....?" This implies that redemption is still available post-death if everyone ultimately acknowledges Jesus. Yet, many traditions insist that salvation has a strict expiration date: believe before you die, or it’s game over. But where exactly does scripture say that death is the final cut-off? In fact, some passages suggest the opposite. 1 Peter 3:18-20 describes how, after His crucifixion, Jesus 'went and made proclamation to the imprisoned spirits—to those who were disobedient long ago when God waited patiently in the days of Noah.' Some theologians interpret this as Jesus offering redemption to souls in the afterlife, which would challenge the idea that death is the ultimate deadline for salvation. If that were true that death is the final belief deadline, wouldn’t the Bible make it unmistakably clear, given the eternal consequences? Geez, for something so horrible, one would think the Bible would devote at least a full chapter to the subject. I mean, we get entire books about how to build a temple, but on this topic? Crickets. Go ahead - try to pull up even a single verse in scripture that clearly says that death is the last chance.
Instead, scripture repeatedly emphasizes God’s relentless mercy, showing a justice that’s about restoration, not retribution. In the Old Testament, the prophet Ezekiel describes God's frustration because Israel is unfaithful, likened to an adulterous wife who turns to idols (see Ezekiel 16:15-34). Although God considers judgement, it is not the final word. Instead, God proclaims, "I will restore the fortunes of Jacob and have compassion on all the people of Israel" (Ezekiel 39:25). This same pattern of divine frustration, warnings of retribution, and ultimate restoration appears in most of the prophets' writings, reinforcing God's desire to heal rather than destroy. In the New Testament, some theologians estimate that a significant portion of the Gospels - perhaps two-thirds or more - focuses on themes of mercy, grace and redemption. If God’s justice is about healing what’s broken, does it make sense that He would permanently condemn someone just because their 'Come to Jesus' moment didn’t happen before their last breath? Jesus wasn’t in the business of gatekeeping heaven—his strongest words of judgment were for the religious elites who used faith as a weapon of control, not for the "sinners" or people who struggled with belief (Matthew 23:13-15).
Is Eternal Punishment Really Justice?
If God is truly just, does it make sense that a few decades of bad decisions would lead to an eternity of unimaginable suffering? Talk about an overreaction. That would not be justice—it would be excessive and punitive rather than fair. A justice system based on retributive punishment does not align with the biblical portrayal of a loving and merciful God. Jesus emphasized boundless forgiveness (Matthew 18:21-22), directly challenging the notion that a finite lifetime of sin could warrant eternal punishment. If human justice seeks proportionality, why would divine justice be infinitely harsher?
What if we saw God not as a cosmic judge tallying up our failures like Santa Clause, checking off who is naughty and who is nice, but as a relentless source of love. What if God is about meeting us in our struggles rather than demanding payment for them? What if instead of requiring suffering, God’s whole thing was about healing—about stepping into our brokenness and bringing restoration? If that’s the case, then the way we see ourselves and others shifts dramatically—not as condemned souls on divine probation, but as deeply loved, fully embraced children of grace.
Instead of seeing sin as a legal debt requiring payment, we might see it as a wound needing healing or a burden needing lifting. The Bible's depiction of salvation is less about deliverance from punishment and more about a transformation of the heart and a restoration of our relationship with God. Jesus’ ministry embodied this restorative approach, as he healed the sick, forgave sins, and embraced outcasts (Luke 5:31-32). Paul describes salvation as reconciliation with God, emphasizing that through Christ, all things are being restored to unity with Him (2 Corinthians 5:18-19). True salvation is not rooted in fear of condemnation but in renewal and wholeness in God’s love.
Embracing the Mystery: Faith Beyond Fear
Here’s the truth that is undeniable: No one actually knows what happens after we die. But that hasn’t stopped plenty of preachers and theologians from talking like they’ve got a backstage pass to the afterlife. This certainty often arises from theological traditions that emphasize rigid doctrines of salvation and judgment, shaping how many view the afterlife. Because nothing says "trust in God" like a detailed flowchart of who gets in and who doesn't. Throughout history, fear can be an effective way to control people. Christian traditions have held diverse views on the afterlife, with many emphasizing God's ongoing invitation to grace—such as the Catholic notion of purgatory—rather than eternal separation. This affirms that divine love is not transactional or conditional—it relentlessly works toward reconciliation, not eternal abandonment.
Most importantly, you don’t have to buy into the eternal torture narrative to be a Christian. You can absolutely believe in a loving God without thinking He runs a cosmic torture chamber for people who picked the wrong doctrine. There is no need to 'throw the baby out with the bathwater' and abandon Christian faith due to the incongruence of an infinitely loving God being portrayed as an eternal torturer. Such an interpretation was not the dominant view of early Christians.
Recognizing God as boundless love rather than wrath frees people from spiritual insecurity and invites them into a deeper, more trusting relationship with the divine. If God is truly love, then our response should not be fear, but gratitude and transformation. What if Christianity isn’t about fear-based fire insurance but about love—beginning, middle, and end? What if the Alpha and the Omega, the first and the last word about you, is love? Not love with conditions. Not love that expires. Just love. Period. No loopholes. No exceptions. No fine print. That’s a Christian narrative worth embracing.
