There isn't sufficient time to go through all the answers, but I have yet to read a theodicy that satisfies or frustrates for its contradictions or absurdity. From free will to predestination, to arguments that say God is not omnipotent or a child God engaged in "soul-making" (Irenaeus), to Plantiga's "free will defense" and multiple universes. Nothing answers. Nothing satisfies.
Finally someone's written an entire book on...well, you can check it out:
Dr. Eherman was also interviewed on Fresh Air recently. You can click here to listen.
At midnight in the backyard hot tub,
pleasantly drunk, three old friends argueOne more time the meaning of The Book of Job.
Floating in brothel-scented foamUnder California constellations, it is easy
to picture the Man of Suffering, the whirlwind,Dead cattle, the warehouses of the snow--
especially the warehouses, which have vastQuartzite double doors, where helicopters
of ethereal whiteness enter and vanish, haulingNeither suffering nor glory, but only another
disgusting winter day for Moscow or Trenton,Stoic taxis rusting through generations
of storm-sown salt. It is about the moralEvolution of the idea of God. It is about
the survival of its own obdurate narrative,Which could rescue even us nonbelievers
from easy sentiment. It is about nothingExcept the incommensurability of everything,
the shitty drama of pain that stretchesFrom Behemoth down to the structure of the atom.
Nobody agrees. Even God refuses to be GodBut breaks down in a windy turbulence.
More wine. And the three of them lean back,Waching lights sign the absolute sky, where,
as though all human consciousness were formingOne vast, slow thought, the dream of the Cambodian boy
on a red-eye flight to Dallas interweavesBaseball, temple bells, roadkill, cemeteries, bread,
sexual ambiguity, and a poster of Pol Pot nailedTo the wall of a compound, monsoon-faded, laced
by bullet holes. The image comes throughThis clear, this real: a yellow-and-black spider
makes its decisive way across the vacant left eyeOf the dictator, which has been precisely punctured
by a round from a surplus M-16. Meanwhile,the 737 that cradles this sleeping boy reclined
in its blue-striped seat threads darkness betweenLos Angeles and Albuquerque, vapor trail
a strand of invisble web joining the strafedFace of the moon and an H-bomb test site.
Everyone on the plane is sleeping, even the pilot,Like God, oblivious at the switch, and all the people
oblivious to his oblivion--otherwiseThey would wake up screaming sensibly.
But everything riding the sky tonight is silent.Leviathan tortures Orion bloodlessly, and the great
Eagle Nebula, screwing stars out of twisted nothing,Is twenty-three trillion miles of decorum. Still
the cattle are dead, the children are dead,The body is pierced with cankers, and, on every horizon,
snow masses its chronic obedience.