Abstract
Theodicy, the enterprise of searching for greater goods that might plausibly justify God’s permission of evil, is often criticized on the grounds that the project has systematically failed to unearth any such goods. But theodicists also face a deeper challenge, one that places under question the very attempt to look for any morally sufficient reasons God might have for creating a world littered with evil. This ‘anti-theodical’ view argues that theists (and non-theists) ought to reject, primarily for moral reasons, the project of ‘justifying the ways of God to men’. Unfortunately, this view has not received the serious attention it deserves, particularly in analytic philosophy of religion. Taking my cues from such anti-theodicists as Kenneth Surin, D.Z. Phillips and Dostoyevsky’s Ivan Karamazov, I defend several reasons for holding that the way of thinking about God and evil enshrined in theodical discourse can only add to the world’s evils, not remove or illuminate them.
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Notes
Much of this Section has been distilled from Chap. 9 of my The God Beyond Belief: In Defence of William Rowe’s Evidential Argument from Evil.
See Rowe (1988: 131).
An alternative but less common classificatory schema, following Leibniz, is to divide evil-kinds into ‘metaphysical evil’ (imperfections or limitations), ‘physical evil’ (or pain), and ‘moral evil’ (sin or vice).
Richard Swinburne takes on this ambitious aim when describing the overall goal of his book Providence and the Problem of Evil thus: ‘I am certainly committed to, and sought to argue for, the strong version of the strong thesis: For every instance of evil, God is justified in allowing it’ (‘Reply to Gale’ 2000: 221).
However, another species of ‘greater goods’, defended vigorously by Roderick Chisholm and Marilyn McCord Adams, are ‘defeater goods’, goods which are made up of an organic unity of good and bad elements, with the bad elements somewhat paradoxically rendering the whole better than it would otherwise have been. See Chisholm (1990), and Adams (1999: ch. 8).
See Plantinga (1965).
A view of this sort is endorsed by van Inwagen (2000: 66–67), though van Inwagen thinks of stories that might well be true for all we know as ‘defences’ rather than theodicies, and puts them forward in the context of a sceptical theist outlook.
For a more detailed account, see Chap. 10 of my The God Beyond Belief.
Hick develops his soul-making theodicy in Part IV of Evil and the God of Love, first edition (London: Macmillan, 1966). Apart from this work, other important presentations of his theodicy occur in Hick (1968); the revised edition of Evil and God of Love (New York: Harper Collins, 1977), which includes an extra chapter where Hick responds to some of his critics; ‘An Irenaean Theodicy,’ originally published in Davis (1981), and republished with some minor amendments in the new edition of Davis’ collection issued in 2001 (both editions also contain interesting discussions between Hick and the other contributors); and Philosophy of Religion, fourth edition (Englewood Cliffs: Prentice-Hall, 1990), pp. 44–48.
Hick, Evil and the God of Love, first edition, p. 362.
See Hick, Evil and the God of Love, first edition, pp. 317–18.
Many theists, of course, do not accept libertarianism, but adopt a compatibilist conception of freedom. It is commonly thought, however, that determinism, whether of the hard or soft variety, renders the problem of evil intractable for theism. See, for example, Flew (1973), Reichenbach (1988), and Le Poidevin (1996: 91–96). For an opposing view, see Trakakis (2006).
For Swinburne’s free will theodicy for natural evil, see Swinburne (1998: 176–92).
Hick, Evil and the God of Love, revised edition, p. 375. On Hick’s eschatology, see also Part V of his Death and Eternal Life (Glasgow: Collins, 1976). Hick likes to capture the importance of the afterlife for theodicy with the slogan, ‘No theodicy without eschatology’ (see, e.g., Hick 1997: 48).
See the works listed in note 1 above.
One point to note here is that much of the trouble, as Rowan Williams explains, seems to be caused by the theodicist’s overly anthropomorphic conception of divine action. The theodicist’s God, Williams (1996: 143) writes, ‘is (like us) an agent in an environment, who must “negotiate” purposes and desires in relation to other agencies and presences. But God is not an item in any environment, and God’s action has been held, in orthodox Christian thought, to be identical with God’s being – that is, what God does is nothing other than God’s being actively real. Nothing could add to or diminish this, because God does not belong in an environment where the divine life could be modified by anything else.’ What this indicates is that one’s theology (particularly one’s conception of God) should begin with, and be informed by, the problem of evil, rather than (as usually happens) attempting to conform one’s views on evil and suffering to an already established theology. For an elaboration of this view, see Sutherland (1984: ch. 2). I will take this opportunity to add that D.Z. Phillips’ critique of the God of analytic philosophers of religion no longer appears uncongenial to me as it (regrettably) did in Oppy and Trakakis (2007).
One cannot overlook, however, the important contributions to anti-theodicy made by modern Jewish theologians in the wake of the Shoah. See, for example, Braiterman (1998), where the idea of ‘anti-theodicy’ receives its first systematic development.
See Phillips, The Problem of Evil and the Problem of God, Chap. 3.
Ibid., Chap. 3, §§6–7, pp. 63–71.
Ibid., Chap. 2, §3, pp. 33–44.
As pointed out by Holland (1980), without the idea of God as a member of a moral community, one cannot speak of God as having or not having morally sufficient reasons (pp.238–39). Holland, interestingly, goes even further to argue that, even if God were a member of a moral community, it is false that God must have some good reason for what he does (pp.239–40).
Phillips, The Problem of Evil and the Problem of God, p. 40, emphasis his.
Ibid.
Camus (1971: 57).
I thank an anonymous referee for bringing this objection to my attention.
Styron (1980: 642).
Phillips, The Problem of Evil and the Problem of God, p. 43.
Ibid., Chap. 3, §§3–4, pp. 56–60.
Quoted in Phillips, The Problem of Evil and the Problem of God, pp. 58–59.
Phillips, The Problem of Evil and the Problem of God, p. 57, emphases in the original.
Ibid., p. 57.
It might be objected that the problem identified here is not a difficulty for theodicies as such but rather for advocates of theodicies. The soul-making theodicy, for example, is simply the view that evil is justified as a necessary condition of soul development, but if a proponent of this theodicy goes on to claim that suffering should be used for personal gain, this is a failing of that individual rather than a view sanctioned by the theodicy itself. (I am grateful to an anonymous referee for raising this objection.) But to view the soul-making theodicy as implying that the sufferings of others are an opportunity for us to grow morally is not to misunderstand that theodicy, for that is precisely what this theodicy maintains. And so it is difficult to see how someone who accepts the soul-making theodicy would not be drawn to viewing the sufferings of others in an instrumental and self-regarding fashion.
Phillips, The Problem of Evil and the Problem of God, p. 59.
Ibid., p. 60. Note, however, Swinburne’s response: ‘I am not saying that a world with a lot more choice and a lot more opportunity to be of use, together with the bad states which would be needed for that, would be better than our world. There certainly does come a point where additional bad states make things overall worse, and a point at which it would be quite wrong of a creator to create a world with so much bad in it.’ (Providence and the Problem of Evil, p. 243, emphasis in the original.) But if the level of suffering in our world is not excessive in the sense of providing more opportunities to be of use than is necessary, then with what confidence can we say that doubling the current levels of suffering will be excessive and counter-productive in the relevant respect?
Furthermore, if God subscribes to the ‘do evil that good may come’ ethic, then should not we do the same? Swinburne’s response has been to argue that God, as our creator and benefactor, may have the right to allow us to endure abuse and murder for the sake of some greater good, whereas we do not have those sorts of rights over each other (Providence and the Problem of Evil, Chap. 12). But see McNaughton (2002), where it is argued that, from a deontological framework, what God has the right to do to us must be tempered by our basic human rights, such as the right not to be sexually abused regardless of any good that may result.
Phillips, The Problem of Evil and the Problem of God, p. 71, emphasis in the original.
Another critic worth mentioning in this context is Michael Levine, who characterizes the responses of Swinburne and (especially) van Inwagen to the problem of evil as ‘terrible solutions to a horrible problem’. With much poignancy, Levine writes: “If van Inwagen and Swinburne were political figures, there would be protesters on the street. I mean this literally and not polemically. After all, what they have done is to offer not just a prima facie, but an ultimate justification for the holocaust and other horrors. What should be explained is how this has gone virtually unnoticed in the literature.” (‘Contemporary Christian Analytic Philosophy of Religion: Biblical Fundamentalism, Terrible Solutions to A Horrible Problem, and Hearing God,’ International Journal for Philosophy of Religion 48 (2000): 107). Levine goes on to suggest that the proposals of Swinburne and van Inwagen are ‘indicative of the lack of vitality, relevance and “seriousness” of contemporary Christian analytic philosophy of religion’ (p.112).
See the papers by Swinburne and Phillips in Brown (1977).
Swinburne, ‘The Problem of Evil,’ in Brown (ed.), Reason and Religion, p. 92.
Phillips, ‘The Problem of Evil,’ in Brown (ed.), Reason and Religion, p. 115.
Swinburne, ‘Postscript,’ in Brown (ed.), Reason and Religion, p. 130, emphasis in the original.
Surin, Theology and the Problem of Evil, p. 84, emphases in the original. Interestingly, in a more recent paper Swinburne evinces some sympathy with such moral criticisms. After writing that ‘if the long term is very long, the short term may not be very short’ – meaning by this that, if it is an eternity in heaven we stand to gain, then our short-term or temporal sufferings may justifiably be greater than they would be if there were no afterlife – Swinburne adds: ‘I must admit that whenever I write sentences like the above and then watch some of the world’s horrors on TV, I ask myself, “Do I really mean this?” But in the end I always conclude that I do’ (‘Response to My Commentators,’ Religious Studies 38 (2002): 305). Some defendants cannot help but indict themselves.
Surin, Theology and the Problem of Evil, p. 84. The quote is from Adorno’s Negative Dialectics, trans. E.B. Ashton (London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1973), pp. 17–18.
Surin, Theology and the Problem of Evil, pp. 84–85. Surin notes that he is referencing Stanley Cavell’s analysis of the ‘grammar’ of the refusal to acknowledge the humanity of the other, particularly as found in Cavell 1979: 329–496.
A further problem with the teleology of suffering which should not go unmentioned relates to its assumption that there can be an ‘outweighing’ relation between goods and evils, so that (for example) the evil of child abuse can be outweighed by the good of free will and the goods free will makes possible (e.g., the ability to enter into relationships of love with others). The problem here is twofold. Firstly, in order for there to be a scheme of outweighing goods and outweighed evils, it must be possible to isolate, quantify, and then compare our multifarious experiences. But does this even make sense? Where, for example, does the experience of child abuse start and end, and how is its degree of badness to be measured and compared against the mere existence of human free will (or the free will of the assailant)? But secondly, even if talk of a particular good outweighing a certain evil made sense, should we be so ready to adopt such a language? Theodicists, unfortunately, never stop to ask whether the language of the marketplace is suited to express moral realities, particularly the horrific moral realities we encounter. Instead, they go about attaching a ‘fixed price’ to goods and evils (where the value of one good might be + 7, while the disvalue of some evil might be –5) and then weighing the one against the other, blithely unaware of the dehumanizing effects of such language. I express my indebtedness here to Rowan Williams’ excellent essay, ‘Redeeming Sorrows’.
Sutherland (1977: vii).
Gibson (1973: 176).
Gibson (1973: 179). The exchange between Ivan and Alyosha occurs in book 5, chapter 4 (entitled ‘Mutiny’) of The Brothers Karamazov.
This is how Ivan sarcastically describes his compilation – see Dostoyevsky, The Brothers Karamazov, trans. David McDuff (London: Penguin, 1993 [orginally published in Russian in 1980]), p. 274.
For Ivan’s account of these and other instances of horrific evil, see Dostoyevsky, The Brothers Karamazov, pp. 274–79. At least some of Ivan’s stories are actual incidents that Dostoyevsky had culled from Russian newspapers. For some of the sources Dostoyevsky was relying upon, see Terras (1981: 224, items 151, 153, and 158).
Dostoyevsky, The Brothers Karamazov, p. 278.
Surin, Theology and the Problem of Evil, pp. 52–53, emphasis in the original. Cf. Surin’s statement in his paper, ‘Theodicy?’ Harvard Theological Review 76 (1983): 243, that ‘Theodicy is inherently flawed: it requires us to be articulate in the face of the unspeakable.’ I should also point out that on pp. 96–105 of his Theology and the Problem of Evil, Surin provides an excellent analysis of Ivan Karamazov’s critique of theodicy.
I register my indebtedness here to the penetrating exploration of tragedy in Solomon (1999: ch. 5). See also Wetzel (1989), who admits that ‘the vice of speculative theodicy is that it cannot accept the possibility of irredeemable evil’ (p.8), even though he goes on to argue, against Surin, that traditional theodicy cannot be avoided.
Dostoyevsky, The Brothers Karamazov, p. 281.
Michael Scott (1996) expresses an objection to theodicies raised by Kenneth Surin as follows: ‘It is one thing to claim that moral evil is justified as the inevitable consequence of human beings being free and responsible; it is quite another to suggest to a person who has been raped that the suffering involved in that experience is in some way balanced out by God’s gift of free will to human beings. The failure of the practice of theodicy in connecting with the practical realities of evil seems to leave the theodicist vulnerable to the charge of moral insensitivity.’ (p. 2)
It should be noted, however, that the general practice of free will theodicists nowadays is to abide by the adequacy condition identified above so as to avoid the kind of problems mentioned by Scott. Whether such a move can meet all the difficulties raised by the anti-theodicist is another matter.
Children occupy a special place in Dostoyevsky’s novels, which often highlight (but without idealizing) the innocence and unquestioning love of children. The precious character of childhood, and of the memories it leaves behind, are also frequently stressed by Dostoyevsky. It is not surprising, then, to find that Dostoyevsky enjoyed an especially close relationship with children. His second wife, Anna Grigorievna, recalls in her memoirs that, ‘He [her husband, Fyodor] had a special ability to talk with children, to enter into their world, win their trust (and this even with strange children he met by accident) and get the child so interested that he would become gay and obedient at once. I account for this in his unflagging love for little children, which told him how to behave in a given situation.’ (Anna Dostoevsky 1975: 283.) I explore some of the distinctive characteristics of childhood, and what they have to teach us, in ‘Becoming Children: The Hidden Meaning of the Incarnation’, Theandros: An Online Journal of Orthodox Christian Theology and Philosophy [www.theandros.com], vol. 3, no. 3, Spring/Summer 2006.
Dostoyevsky, The Brothers Karamazov, p. 281.
Phillips, The Problem of Evil and the Problem of God, pp. 85–86. An additional difficulty in the idea of evil as something that can be compensated for or redeemed is that this view naturally leads to a denial of the reality of evil or to the belief that evil is not as bad as it initially seems. Consider, for example, Alexander Pope’s infamous lines:
All Discord, Harmony, not understood;
All partial Evil, universal Good:
And, spite of Pride, in erring Reason’s spite,
One truth is clear, ‘Whatever IS, is RIGHT.’
(An Essay on Man, Epistle I, vv. 291–94, in John Butt (ed.), The Poems of Alexander Pope, London: Methuen & Co., 1963, p.515)
To be sure, theodicists vehemently deny that they are committed to the unreality of evil. They would argue that, in describing, say, the everlasting post-mortem beatific vision of God as a good which ‘redeems’ or ‘defeats’ the evils in one’s life, the evils continue to be thought of as evil. However, the theodicist adds, viewed sub specie aerternitatis the evils one suffers can no longer be seen as destroying the value and meaning of one’s life, for they will then be seen as somewhat trivial in comparison to the glorification experienced in heaven (see, e.g., Romans 8:18) and as providing various benefits not otherwise obtainable (e.g., character growth). But this, I suggest, is to effect a change in our perspective on evil that is so radical as to deaden our moral sensibilities, particularly our sense of horror and disgust aroused by much evil. Stewart Sutherland develops this view in response to Marilyn McCord Adams, who appeals to the experience of the beatific vision as an incommensurable good that both outweighs and defeats all evils, even evils of the worst or horrific kind, that one may have undergone in one’s temporal life. Sutherland replies that ‘at its minimum the defeat of horrendous evil requires a significant qualification of the initial moral perceptions and commitments which lead to the classification of evils as horrendous evils. That is to say, the individual must, in the end, come to the view that viewed in a proper light horrendous evils are not so bad after all!’ (Sutherland 1989: 317). See also Wachterhauser (1985), where it is argued that the very condition of having a moral perspective is the ability to recognize at least some instances of evil as unjustifiable.
Dostoyevsky, The Brothers Karamazov, p. 282, emphasis in the original. One is reminded here of the following exchange between Dr Bernard Rieux and the Jesuit priest, Father Paneloux, in Albert Camus’ novel, The Plague (1960: 178):
‘I understand,’ Paneloux said in a low voice. ‘That sort of thing [the death of a child resulting from a plague] is revolting because it passes our human understanding. But perhaps we should love what we cannot understand.’
Rieux straightened up slowly. He gazed at Paneloux, summoning to his gaze all the strength and fervour he could muster against his weariness. Then he shook his head.
‘No, Father. I’ve a very different idea of love. And until my dying day I shall refuse to love a scheme of things in which children are put to torture.’
Dostoyevsky, The Brothers Karamazov, p. 282. Dostoyevsky, particularly in his younger days, was heavily influenced by the work of Schiller (in a letter to his brother Mikhail in 1840, Dostoyevsky wrote: ‘I have learned Schiller by heart, spoken Schiller, raved Schiller,’ quoted in Lantz 2004: 385). This influence is evident in Ivan’s famous phrase of ‘returning my entry ticket’, which is borrowed from Zhukovsky’s Russian translation of Schiller’s poem, ‘Resignation’ (1784), specifically lines 3–4 of the third stanza: ‘The entrance letter to an earthly paradise/I return to Thee unopened’ (see Terras 1981: 16).
Surin, Theology and the Problem of Evil, p. 98. I strongly recommend the insightful analysis of Ivan’s atheism provided in Sutherland (1977: ch.2). Sutherland detects three strands in Ivan’s subtle form of atheism, the first of which is the rebellion against God mentioned above, the second consists of viewing God in terms that are ‘profoundly and intentionally blasphemous’, while the third involves a denial of the validity and intelligibility of the religious way of life. See Sutherland, Atheism and the Rejection of God, Chap. 2.
Dostoyevsky, The Brothers Karamazov, p. 282.
It might be objected that Kant’s categorical imperative as formulated here (the so-called ‘humanity formulation’) does not rule out using people as means to our ends – something, in fact, we regularly do – but using people merely as means to our ends. I do not wish to dispute this. My point, however, is that theodicists do tend to picture God as treating human creatures as mere means to his ultimate ends. Consider, for example, Swinburne’s suggestion that, as long as God grants you a life that is overall good, he has the right to treat you as a means to some end, or more specifically, he has the right to allow you to suffer so as to provide opportunities to others to respond well to that suffering (Providence and the Problem of Evil, p. 233). But, going by the kinds of calculations theodicists (Swinburne included) like to make, it is relatively easy for God to ensure that you have a life that is good overall. For it should be noted that, in this context, ‘life’ denotes one’s entire (pre- and post-mortem) life, and that the value of the heavenly afterlife is thought to be an incommensurable good, or at least a good that far outweighs any merely temporal good or evil. In that case, God can deliberately inflict serious harm on someone for the good of others, but then ensure that the sufferer has a life that is good overall by simply offering them a heavenly afterlife as compensation. It is doubtful that God, in violating the basic dignity of a person in this way, is treating them as an end in themselves or setting great store on their humanity. For a helpful discussion of Kant’s ‘formula of humanity’, see Hill (1980), where Hill argues that, for Kant, to treat human persons as ends in themselves is to view the humanity in persons as having an unconditional and incomparable worth that cannot be traded off for something of greater value.
But if theodicy is rejected, how should the theist respond to the problem of evil? This is an important question, deserving a paper in its own right. Briefly put, the kind of response I would favour is that offered by Dostoyevsky himself, who sought to (indirectly) counter Ivan’s rebellion by juxtaposing it with the Christian form of life embodied by Alyosha and, especially, Father Zosima. For further details on this kind of strategy, see Sutherland (1977: chs 6–8).
I am indebted here to an anonymous referee of this journal for presenting the objection in the above clear and forceful way.
See Surin, ‘Theodicy?’ pp. 240–43.
Griffin (1976: 16).
Tilley, (1991: 231).
Tilley, (1991: 231). The tendency to fatalism, or to a sense of passivity, is created by the theodicist’s view that no evil is gratuitous, from which it may be inferred that there is little point in attempting to prevent a particular evil from occurring since the evil, even if it were to occur, would only help to serve some purpose ordained by God. Some, indeed, have thought that this exposes a fundamental incoherence in the project of developing ‘greater-good’ theodicies. See, for example, Hasker (1992).
Surin, ‘Theodicy?’ p. 230. The footnote quoted is from note 10, p. 230 of Surin’s paper.
Surin, Theology and the Problem of Evil, p. 50. For an excellent illustration of this premise, see the essays in Part II of John K. Roth (ed.), Genocide and Human Rights: A Philosophical Guide (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2005), these essays showing the various ways in which philosophy has been complicit in genocide.
Surin, Theology and the Problem of Evil, p. 51.
Ibid.
See McClleland (2004). In this perceptive essay on the (pathological) psychological motivations lying behind theodicy, McClleland speaks of the abstractions of theodicists as producing an ‘Echo effect’. The reference here is to the myth of Narcissus, as recounted by Ovid, where the nymph Echo is deprived of her powers of speech by Hera (the wife of Zeus and goddess of marriage), and is consequently unable to express any thoughts of her own, but can only repeat (or echo) the last words that she hears from others. But Echo is best known for falling in love with the beautiful Narcissus, who shuns her advances and as a result she gradually wastes away in grief until she is nothing more than an answering voice. McClleland explains that the nymph Echo ‘has ceased to be a real character at all, so lacking in psychological depth and solidity as finally to be nothing but a disembodied and depersonalized voice’ (p.194). Theodicies, McClleland goes on to add, have a similar (Echo) effect when they fail to give the sufferer a voice, and instead treat their sufferings in an abstract and hence psychologically shallow manner (pp.202–204).
Plantinga, God, Freedom, and Evil (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1977), pp. 28–29, emphases in the original.
Ibid., pp. 63–64, emphasis in the original.
O’Connor (1988: 64). On the previous page of his paper (p.63), O’Connor draws the distinction between the conceptual and the ministerial problems as follows: ‘In the domain of the [conceptual problem of evil] success and failure are measured by rules of logic and sufficiency of evidence, that is, by making the right distinctions and by having good arguments…while in the [domain of the ministerial problem of evil] the measures of success and failure are subjective, existential, and pragmatic. In the former, we succeed to the degree we come out with a good explanation, while we succeed in the latter to the degree we cope.’
See Scott (1996: 3).
See Scott (1996: 5).
O’Connor (1988: 68).
See Scott (1996: 6).
Surin (1986: 50).
Sutherland (1977: 141–42) points out that theodicy offers a set of emotions or emotional responses to the world which is intended to appease and placate sufferers, and to therefore sanction evil (echoes of Marx’s ‘opium of the people’). By way of contrast, consider the emotional response to the world’s atrocities exemplified by Ivan Karamazov: anger, bitterness, protest, and rebellion. As Sutherland notes, to seek to alter these emotions or to question their appropriateness would amount to redescribing the situation facing Ivan, and in that sense it would be to falsify the facts concerning evil – this is precisely what Ivan believes is asked of him by the theodicist.
Greenberg’s test, it might be objected, would have the effect of reducing us all to a position of silence in the face of evil. I do not think this is right. Responses other than silence to the problem of evil are available, as indicated in note 67 above. Nevertheless, the importance of silence is usually overlooked by analytical philosophers, who rush in where angels fear to tread, as it were, by not hesitating to tell us God’s reasons for permitting suffering or why such reasons cannot be known by us. This attitude can be contrasted with the reticence of Holocaust survivors to write and talk about their experiences, many waiting ten to twenty years before breaking their silence. ‘They were afraid,’ Elie Wiesel explains, ‘that, in the very process of telling the tale, they would betray it… So we didn’t speak about it because we were afraid of committing a sin’ (Roth and Berenbaum 1989: 367). To be sure, the only credible immediate response to evil is not talk, but action. As John Roth explains, in an essay which also takes Greenberg’s statement as its epigraph, ‘Talk about a theodicy of protest or about antitheodicy would not be much more credible in the literal presence of the burning children. Efforts to rescue the children and to resist the powers that took their lives would be the only statements that could fully approach credibility in those dire straits’ (Roth 2004: 277).
Voltaire (1947: 37).
This prioritization of the ‘objective’ over the ‘subjective’ illustrates that the theodicist (like many in the analytical tradition of philosophy) fails to see that someone who has suffered some painful loss or illness may have acquired an insight or understanding of suffering not available to one who has not gone through such an experience (much like people who have lived in poverty or under oppression may be aware of social realities that those in positions of power and wealth cannot but be oblivious to).
Williams (1996: 148).
Williams (1996: 148, emphasis in the original).
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Trakakis, N. Theodicy: The Solution to the Problem of Evil, or Part of the Problem?. SOPHIA 47, 161–191 (2008). https://doi.org/10.1007/s11841-008-0063-6
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DOI: https://doi.org/10.1007/s11841-008-0063-6