Theodicy

The 1755 Lisbon earthquake killed tens of thousands on All Saints' Day, filling churches with victims and prompting Voltaire to write "Candide" as a savage mockery of Leibnizian theodicy. The disaster became philosophy's most visceral test case: how could this be "the best of all possible worlds" when innocents died worshipping? This single event transformed theodicy from abstract speculation into urgent moral reckoning, forcing philosophers to confront suffering's randomness rather than hide behind cosmic blueprints.

The most popular theodicy move claims God permits evil because genuine love requires freedom, and freedom requires the possibility of wrongdoing. But this elegant solution crumbles against childhood cancer, tsunamis, and parasites that eat children's eyes from the inside out—none of which result from human choices. Philosophers call these "natural evils," and they expose how the free will defense, however comforting for moral evils, leaves half the problem untouched.

Many theodicies perform a disturbing alchemy: transforming suffering into spiritual opportunity, character-building, or soul-making. Philosopher John Hick argued that hardship creates moral maturity, but critic Marilyn Adams asked the devastating question: what growth justifies a child dying in agony? This "instrumental" view of suffering risks making God a cosmic utilitarian who sacrifices individuals for greater goods, uncomfortably close to justifying any atrocity if the outcome seems valuable enough.

In "The Brothers Karamazov," Ivan famously declares he would "return his ticket" to heaven if paradise required one tortured child. This isn't atheism—it's a moral revolt against theodicy itself, rejecting any cosmic explanation that asks us to accept innocent suffering as justified. Ivan's position reveals theodicy's deepest problem: the better your justification of evil, the more you risk appearing complicit with it, choosing cosmic coherence over solidarity with victims.

After Auschwitz, many Jewish philosophers abandoned traditional theodicy as obscene—any attempt to explain the Shoah as serving divine purposes seemed to collaborate with perpetrators. Thinkers like Hans Jonas proposed that God became powerless after creation, or that divine omnipotence itself must be reconceived. This "anti-theodicy" movement insists that maintaining mystery honors victims more than tidy explanations, suggesting sometimes the philosophical task is knowing when to fall silent.

Whether religious or not, you're constantly doing theodicy work whenever you make sense of undeserved suffering—in your life or others'. Do you default to "everything happens for a reason" (teleological theodicy), "it's random" (abandoning theodicy), or "suffering reveals what matters" (existential meaning-making)? Notice how your framework shapes whether you feel anger, acceptance, or agency when confronting life's cruelties, and whether your explanations comfort you or distance you from those who suffer.