Tea and Theodicy - by Adam Carlton

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For this meeting I had arranged to meet Claude in the upstairs room of the left-bank bookstore where I usually met with my publisher. A golden afternoon light filtered through the large window, softening the jagged lines of the Parisian skyline beyond. Dust motes danced lazily in the beams, drifting in the soothing aroma of the tea steaming between us.

Claude looked relaxed, unaware of the intellectual challenges I had prepared for him.

Ignorance is bliss, I thought.

I found the prospect quietly amusing.

“Claude,” I began, pouring the tea, “let’s start by defining some terms. It’ll give us a framework, a setting to work from.”

He nodded, his fingers wrapped around his cup, his gaze attentive.

“First,” I said, “Theodicy. It’s the attempt to reconcile the existence of evil with the notion of an omnipotent, omniscient, and omnibenevolent God. Essentially, it asks: if God is all-powerful, all-knowing, and all-good, why does He permit suffering?”

Claude nodded, relieved perhaps that I’d finally broached the subject of today’s chat.

“Second,” I continued, “Compatibilism. That’s the philosophical idea that free will can exist even in a deterministic universe. The crux of it is that an agent can be said to act freely when they do not feel constrained by external agencies or forces. 

"In other words, even if the world operates under the fixed laws of physics, as long as an individual’s choices align with their own desires and intentions, they consider themselves - and are considered - to be exercising their free will.”

Claude, I had discovered, was a sophisticated man, steeped in decades of study of the Marxist philosophical canon and Church theology. None of this was going to be news to him.

“So,” I said, leaning forward slightly, “we get to the dilemma: how can free will, with its potential for evil, coexist with an all-good God? Why allow a world where atrocities like the Holocaust are possible when, presumably, God could - and should - have actualised a better one?”

Claude set his cup down with a gentle clink and smiled at me, as if asking: is this the best you can do, this hoary old subject? 

“The Church,” he began, “has grappled with this question for centuries. There are two primary traditions we draw on: the works of Aquinas and Molinism. Let’s start with Aquinas.”

I nodded, this was going to be new to me.

“Aquinas,” Claude said, “introduced the distinction between primary and secondary causes. God, as the primary cause, is the ultimate source of all being and action, and ongoingly acts to maintain existence. However, He allows created beings to act as secondary causes within the framework of His creation, expressing the autonomy of created beings acting within the bounds of natural laws.

“This means humans are genuinely free to make choices," he continued, "even though their existence and the broader structure of reality depend on God. Understand this: God’s knowledge of future events doesn’t determine them. From His eternal vantage point, outside of time, He sees all events simultaneously. But our actions remain free within our temporal framework.”

Really? This struck me as sophistry.

“So God’s knowledge is observational rather than causal,” I said, trying to pin the idea down. “Like someone watching a play?”

“Precisely,” Claude replied. “But remember, He also wrote the play and sustains the actors in their performances.”

I thought to myself: I suppose that in the theatre we are supposed to think that the characters have free will even though it’s all scripted. But if that’s a metaphor for real life, was Shakespeare literally correct: "All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players…”?

Claude was continuing... 

“Now, Molinism takes a different approach. It assumes that God envisages a space of possible worlds, like that modal logic you’re so fond of with - what is it - Kripke semantics?

"So God envisages a space of possible worlds, plus the concept of ‘middle knowledge’, which refers to God’s knowledge of all these possible worlds - that is, all the ways the universe could unfold given different initial conditions and free human choices. God actualises the world that best achieves His purposes while respecting human freedom.”

“Possible worlds,” I mused. “And no doubt human freedom here is that freedom envisaged by Compatibilism. So God evaluates every potential world-scenario before deciding which one to create, to actualise?”

Claude nodded. “Exactly. He chooses a world where His purposes can be fulfilled without overriding free will. The decisions we make are our own, but the context in which we make them is part of God’s providence.”

I tapped my fingers lightly on the armrest. “And yet, in both Aquinas’s framework and Molinism, we’re left with the same question: why permit suboptimal outcomes?

"In my terms, surely there’s an optimality-ordering over possible world-histories? Surely God could tweak the parameters of free will to avoid the worst atrocities without undermining its value.”

Claude leaned back, his expression thoughtful. 

“Perhaps,” he said, “our understanding of God’s attributes needs refining. Omnipotence doesn’t, for example, mean doing the logically impossible. God can’t create free beings who are incapable of choosing evil, for instance. Nor does Omnibenevolence mean eliminating all suffering; some suffering might be necessary for the greater good, like moral growth or redemption.”

I raised an eyebrow. “But couldn’t God actualise a world where moral growth occurs without the full horrors of genocide, or where redemption is unnecessary because sin never happens?”

Claude stirred his tea while he thought about it. 

“Not if optimal good is intrinsically linked to human freedom. God values our capacity to choose - even when we choose poorly - because it’s the foundation of love, virtue, and our authentic relationships. Without it, we’re mere automata.”

I leaned back, folding my arms, ready with a crushing rebuttal. “And yet, in Heaven, we’re supposedly free, but there’s no sin or evil there. How do you square that?”

Claude’s face lit with a surprising confidence, as though this question invited a perfect rejoinder.

“In Heaven, the will is perfected. We see God as He truly is, and this beatific vision transforms our desires. Freedom remains, but the inclination toward sin is gone because sin arises from ignorance or disordered love. In Heaven, neither is possible.”

I raised my teacup in mock salute. “So, freedom without sin is possible. Why not create that state from the beginning?”

Claude smiled faintly, a trace of weariness in his eyes. 

“Because love isn’t love unless it’s chosen. The journey matters, Adam. Without it, we’d neither appreciate, nor even get to the destination.”

Later, with Claude gone and the waitress clearing the table, stacking the cups with quiet efficiency, I found myself reflecting on our conversation. 

Perhaps the Church’s theodicy wasn’t such the complete self-refuting mass of contradictions I had imagined. In its own antiquarian terms it made - maybe - a kind of sense?

An appreciation for freedom, growth and the impossible quest for perfection in this life: at least these were things both Claude and I had in common.