Few arguments in philosophy possess the staying power of the problem of evil. From Epicurus through Augustine to contemporary analytic philosophers, thinkers have wrestled with a seemingly simple question: How can a perfect God coexist with a world saturated in suffering?

The persistence of this problem isn't due to philosophical stubbornness or religious bad faith. It endures because it strikes at the logical coherence of theism itself. Each premise in the argument carries independent force, and abandoning any one of them comes with theological costs most believers find unacceptable.

What makes this philosophical puzzle genuinely difficult—and why it continues generating sophisticated responses after two millennia—reveals something profound about the nature of religious belief, the limits of human reason, and the stubborn reality of suffering that refuses to be explained away.

The problem of evil takes the form of an apparent contradiction. Classical theism holds that God is omnipotent (all-powerful), omniscient (all-knowing), and omnibenevolent (perfectly good). Yet evil exists. The argument claims these propositions cannot all be true simultaneously.

The reasoning proceeds with deceptive simplicity. An omnipotent being could prevent any evil. An omniscient being would know about all evils before they occur. An omnibenevolent being would want to prevent all evils. Therefore, if such a being existed, evil would not exist. But evil exists. Therefore, such a being does not exist.

What gives this argument its power is that each premise seems independently compelling. Of course a perfect being would want to eliminate suffering. Of course an all-powerful being could do so. Of course an all-knowing being wouldn't be caught unaware. The logical machinery is simple enough that any one of us could have formulated it.

The theist must either deny a premise, show that the premises don't actually entail a contradiction, or demonstrate that despite appearances, these propositions can coexist. Each strategy has been attempted repeatedly. None has achieved anything approaching philosophical consensus.

Takeaway

The problem's force comes not from complexity but from simplicity—each premise seems undeniable in isolation, yet together they appear to generate contradiction.

Philosophical responses to the problem of evil divide into two fundamentally different projects. Understanding this distinction clarifies what can and cannot be accomplished by each approach.

A defense aims merely to show that there is no logical contradiction between God's existence and evil's existence. The defender need not explain why God permits suffering—only that it's logically possible that God has morally sufficient reasons. Alvin Plantinga's famous free will defense exemplifies this approach. He argues that it's possible that God could not create beings with genuine free will while guaranteeing they never choose evil. If this is merely possible, the logical problem dissolves.

A theodicy, by contrast, attempts to explain what God's actual reasons for permitting evil are. John Hick's soul-making theodicy, for instance, argues that suffering is necessary for moral development—that virtues like courage, compassion, and resilience can only develop in a world containing genuine hardship.

The distinction matters enormously. Many philosophers consider the logical problem of evil effectively solved by defenses like Plantinga's. But this victory is limited. Showing that no formal contradiction exists differs from explaining why a loving God would permit the Holocaust, childhood cancer, or natural disasters that kill hundreds of thousands. The evidential problem—whether the amount and distribution of evil counts as evidence against God—remains philosophically live.

Takeaway

Solving the logical puzzle doesn't touch the deeper question: not whether God and evil can coexist, but whether the world's actual suffering is what we'd expect if a perfect being existed.

Consider the free will defense. Critics point out that it addresses only moral evil—evil caused by human choices. What about natural evil? Earthquakes, diseases, and animal suffering existed long before humans. Some defenders extend the argument to include demonic free will or unknown goods, but these moves strike many as ad hoc.

Soul-making theodicy faces its own challenges. Why must growth require such extreme suffering? Couldn't an omnipotent God design souls that develop through less horrific means? And what of suffering that destroys rather than develops—the child who dies before developing anything, the trauma that breaks rather than builds?

Skeptical theism takes a different approach: given our cognitive limitations, we shouldn't expect to understand God's reasons for permitting evil. But critics argue this proves too much. If we can't trust our moral judgments about what a good God would do, can we trust them anywhere? This response seems to undermine the very moral intuitions that ground religious belief.

The deepest difficulty may be this: each theodicy requires trading off divine attributes. Emphasize free will, and you limit omnipotence. Emphasize unknown goods, and you limit our ability to make moral judgments about God at all. The problem of evil persists because the tensions it exposes run through the concept of God itself.

Takeaway

Every theodicy purchases its solution at theological cost—each explanation for evil requires quietly revising what we mean by God's power, knowledge, or goodness.

The problem of evil endures not because philosophers lack ingenuity but because the problem is genuinely hard. It exposes tensions built into classical theism itself—tensions between divine attributes that seem to pull in different directions when confronted with suffering's brute reality.

Perhaps the problem's persistence tells us something important. Maybe the relationship between divine perfection and worldly suffering cannot be resolved through argument alone but requires resources beyond philosophical analysis.

Or perhaps the problem endures because it should—because suffering demands acknowledgment rather than explanation, and our continued wrestling with this question honors the seriousness of what's at stake.