Last week, I introduced my students to the theological concept theodicy. Theodicy is a theological explanation of why suffering and evil occur that usually includes some kind of defense of divine attributes. For example, if G-d is all-knowing (omniscient), ever-present (omnipresent), all-powerful (omnipotent) and all-loving then how do we explain hurricanes, illness, mass murder, airplane crashes and other forms of evil and suffering? This is quite difficult because, as my students point out after a few minutes of discussion, most explanations are often unfulfilling or inadequate. The discussion turns quite quickly to two reactions. Either, G-d isn’t what we thought G-d was or science does a better job explaining these examples of evil and suffering. Science explains that hurricanes happen because of various environmental factors or a plane crashes because of mechanical problems. Even the concept of humanity’s freewill as the cause of evil often circles back to G-d’s creation of humanity and leaves students unsettled. If G-d created within humanity the possibility of evil, how, then G-d can be all-loving?
The love/evil dichotomy is often the real conundrum of theodicies in monotheism. This has been pointed out by numerous theologians throughout the ages. How do we account for evil when there is only one divine Being? How can an all-good, all-loving Being c
reate or even be responsible for evil? Which leads to the next question, is evil the absence of love? These are extremely difficult philosophical and theological questions.
To explore then, we should start where it is often suggested that we learn most about love: family, close friends and intimate relationships. Take this for example. Continue reading “On Love, Theodicy and Domestic Violence by Ivy Helman”










Hildegard, who lived from 1092 to 1179, was the tenth child of a family of minor nobility in the Holy Roman Empire. She’s a sturdy child who loves the outdoors and enjoys running through the forest with her brother. But early in the novel, she learns that she is to be her family’s tithe to the church. Her mother has already arranged for this bright and curious eight-year-old child to be the companion to Jutta von Sponheim, a “holy virgin” who yearns to be bricked up as an anchorite in the Abby of Disibodenberg. Being an anchorite means that, like Julian of Norwich (about 250 years later), this girl and her magistra are bricked in. There is a screened opening in the wall through which their meager meals are passed and through which they can witness mass and speak to Abbott Cuno, the other monks, and visiting pilgrims, but they can never go out. Never. In the Afterword, Sharratt writes that “Disibodenberg Abbey is now in ruins and it’s impossible to precisely pinpoint where the anchorage was, but the suggested location is two suffocatingly narrow rooms and a narrow courtyard built on to the back of the church” (p. 272). As Sharratt vividly shows us, Hildegard survived in that awful place for thirty years. 