“Better to reign in Hell than to serve in Heaven.” So goes a famous quote from John Milton’s Paradise Lost. It is uttered by Satan after his expulsion from paradise.

Today, we may understand that quote differently than when it was written by its author. We may interpret it, instead, as asking whether we’d rather be right than happy. For us, to rule in hell is, in a sense, to play righteous gods in our own little kingdoms.

I must admit that I have a strong investment in being right. I almost always believe that I am right, or I would have another opinion, a different position. To be wrong – to feel like I’m wrong – is a very naked feeling. It damages my pride. So, I value the correctness of my position, of my thoughts, of my words, of my actions. But here’s the thing: if I’m right, then everyone who disagrees with me must be wrong.

Being right is winning. In order to win, someone else must lose. If I want to achieve total victory, someone else or some other group must suffer utter defeat. The extent of my triumph corresponds inversely to the extent of their loss.  To the degree I’m right, another who disagrees must be made wrong.

In any disagreement, it’s important to prevail. My ego prefers to be loved, but it will settle for control. It wants admiration, but when others don’t bend to its will, it will often seek power. Given the choice between being loved and being obeyed, many are they who seek obedience. In the language of dictators and crime lords, it’s better to be feared than it is to be loved.

If I adhere to this credo, then I must make certain choices which lead to certain outcomes. The need to prevail leads me to seek control. The urge – the need –to control forces me to build walls. If I’m successful, I defend the fortress that is me and mine. I win.

But if I seek to love and to be loved in return, how does control fit in with that choice? The feeling of being in love is the exact opposite of control. In the abandon of love, we seek the loss of control.

To win is a competition. The act of triumphing over others isn’t an act of love and it won’t lead to a loving outcome. I may force my will on someone I claim to love, but it won’t engender feelings of love from them.

The intention of making another wrong in order to make myself right isn’t a loving intention. And to be feared is certainly not to be loved. One precludes the other. I can’t love those who I fear. And she who fears me certainly does not love me. They may respect me, but their adherence to my will is done out of fear of consequences, not desire.

Love, it is said by some, requires no sacrifice at all. Yet in one way, it requires the greatest sacrifice there is: the need to be in control, to conquer, to be right. If I truly want to open myself to the possibility of loving another and being loved in return, I must relinquish my desire to control the very outcome of whether they love me back. I must let down my walls. I must allow them to love me on their terms, and I must love them for everything they are and everything they’re not. Love sets no terms, since it is unconditional by its very nature. To truly love another is to relinquish all fears about whether my gift will be requited. It’s to accept that the object of my heart’s desire may not love me in return.

It is, above all, to let go of the need to control, and of the need to win, and of the need to be right. When I relinquish these, I might realize that it’s better to serve in heaven. I may come to know that paradise is right here in front of me, and that it’s been all along.

© 2025 by Michael C. Just