Dinner Dialogues: Joy, Suffering, and the Problem of Evil

In this excerpt, Grimly and Dimitri, two friends, navigate a conversation that flows from lighthearted banter to deep philosophical musings.

Sisyphus

As the two friends strolled to their favorite restaurant, their conversation flowed effortlessly from the mundane to the profound. Grimly and Dimitri discussed serious topics, yet their banter remained light and spirited. Dimitri’s casual confessions about crushes on girls he had never spoken to reminded Grimly of Dimitri, his childhood best friend. This recollection warmed his heart and brought a broad smile to his face. Despite the vast differences — continents, religions, languages, and cultures — that separated his roommate from Dimitri, Grimly marveled at the universal human desire to love, be loved, understand, and connect.

Grimly suddenly recalled his father’s words about the past: it is the essence of reality, preserved forever in memory, shaping and enriching our current worldview. “Perhaps the true meaning of life is found not in looking forward but in reflecting backward,” Grimly mused. The conversation flowed seamlessly until they reached the restaurant, where Grimly noticed a man in a wheelchair. The man, who was also blind as indicated by his nighttime sunglasses, navigated with one hand on his wheelchair and the other wielding a cane. Grimly was struck by another detail: the man was steadily and mindfully murmuring prayers while counting his Masbaha beads.

Inside the restaurant, Grimly, feeling indulgent, ordered a lavish meal: empanadas, a large taco salad, and extra guacamole. Inspired by Grimly’s exuberance, Dimitri, despite his small stature, chose a similarly large meal. For a moment, Grimly’s delight was shadowed by a realization: his extraordinary day of joy was a rare event for him but occurred more frequently for others, blessed randomly by Fortuna, the goddess of luck. This randomness prompted Grimly to ponder the inherent unfairness of life. “Why me?” he often asked during his darker moments, a question answered only by a pragmatic and dispassionate “Why not?” This response did not dispel his despair but challenged the justification for feeling uniquely victimized or punished by a capricious universe.

As they began to eat voraciously, Grimly’s attention was drawn outside by the sight of the blind man in the wheelchair passing by the restaurant.

“Too bad, huh?” Dimitri asked, noticing Grimly’s fixed gaze.

“Understatement,” Grimly replied, his expression turning serious. “I often wonder how someone in such a condition doesn’t contemplate suicide, given the challenges of not being able to see or walk, at least it must have occurred as a passing thought.”

Dimitri offered a gentle counterpoint, “Yet, he hasn’t taken that route and seems to be enjoying his evening, navigating the world despite his physical limitations.”

“That’s exactly what intrigues me,” Grimly responded. “He must be actively choosing life, despite the immense hardships. Committing suicide might not be simple, but it seems it would be less burdensome than enduring a life filled with such unrelenting suffering.”

“But who are we to say he is suffering? Perhaps he’s content, maybe even happy,” Dimitri challenged.

“It would be presumptuous and unrealistic for me to claim knowledge of his happiness. However, it must be incredibly tough for him to navigate life, especially with such grace on a Friday night, if there wasn’t some profound meaning infusing him. The randomness and severity of his challenges make life seem nearly insurmountable. It reminds me of Sisyphus, condemned to endlessly roll a boulder uphill, only to watch it roll back down. Many of us endure similarly Sisyphean tasks — repetitive and seemingly futile. This man, blind and wheelchair-bound, faces a particularly stark version of this existential dilemma,” Grimly explained, his tone a mix of admiration and melancholy.

“Well then,” Dimitri said thoughtfully, “how do you suppose Sisyphus, or in this case, the blind man, persists in what you call this ‘nonsensical business’ and sometimes even leads a life more productive than many others? Take Stephen Hawking, for instance.”

“That’s exactly it!” Grimly exclaimed, standing up, his finger pointed in a moment of revelation. “That is the source of my fascination — it’s truly inspirational. I’ve been pondering this throughout our conversation, and I think I’ve grasped it, at least for this blind man.”

Dimitri leaned forward, his interest piqued, his mouth slightly open in anticipation.

“The answer, quite visibly, lies in what he was holding: the Masbaha,” Grimly declared with a knowing smirk. “It symbolizes his deep faith, a profound belief in something greater than oneself, which might just provide the strength needed to endure and find meaning in suffering.”

“The Masbaha?” Dimitri asked, his expression one of confusion.

“Yes,” Grimly replied, his tone earnest. “It’s a sign of his deep faith. He wears it not just as a symbol, but as a reminder to himself and others of his belief in a power greater than any of us. Consider how, in many cultures, suffering is often seen as divine testing or punishment, intended to refine our virtues or penalize our misdeeds. It’s a profound, sometimes comforting thought for many — that today’s trials are a tally by God, counting towards ultimate rewards beyond this life. Thus, not surprisingly, some individuals, like soldiers in wartime, relinquish all worldly pleasures and even their lives, believing in a cause that far exceeds earthly joys.”

Dimitri nodded thoughtfully before responding, “That makes a lot of sense. I remember a neuroscientist friend sharing a fascinating observation: Two groups faced with stressors reacted differently depending on whether the stress was chosen or imposed. Those who chose their stressors engaged a psychological system linked to challenge and positive emotions, unlike those who had stress thrust upon them. This seems to echo your point about how belief transforms suffering into a challenge, imbuing it with potential virtue and meaning, assured by faith in a just deity.”

“That’s an insightful point, my friend,” Grimly responded, clearly impressed by the depth of wisdom he saw in Dimitri. “It perfectly illustrates why I believe the phrase ‘ignorance is bliss’ is so apt in such situations. Let me explain with a historical example that echoes through countless similar stories. At the close of the eleventh century, Pope Urban II initiated the Crusades, calling all Christian believers in Europe to wage war against Muslims to reclaim the Holy Land. Young men were forcibly conscripted to fight in these daunting, deathly battles. Understandably, their mothers, who had raised and loved these boys for years, had to bid them goodbye, fully aware of the grim possibility that their sons might perish in severe agony on foreign battlefields, alone deserted and confused at where their faiths brought them.

As the Crusaders returned, the villages were filled with frantic mothers and fathers. While some were reunited with their sons, others watched in mixed feelings of envy and hope, only to be devastated upon receiving the tragic news of their sons’ deaths. The grief they felt was profound — a deep, wrenching sorrow for the loss of their once helpless infants who had grown into men capable of life and death. From my own observations, I can attest that the instinctual love of a parent is both deep and unconditional, yet it brings with it an intense suffering when a child is in pain or, worse, lost.

The parents undoubtedly wept, overwhelmed by their loss, their agony likely lingering and gnawing at their souls until their dying breath. Yet, there must have been some form of solace, some narrative or belief they clung to — perhaps and especially even a lie they convinced themselves of — to make sense of and justify their overwhelming heartache. Their ability to imagine, to believe fervently in these abstract and powerful ideas, became their strongest ally, their most reliable means of coping with the unbearable.”

“Now, these narratives, largely fictional, I argue, are shaped and upheld by the religious, social, and political narratives prevalent in their respective societies. The mothers of the Crusaders likely embraced, perhaps without much thought, the consolations offered by priests who proclaimed, ‘Your sons were courageous martyrs; their sacrifice will not go to waste, will never be forgotten by Almighty God, whose divine rewards shall exceed all expectations and imaginations; these martyrs’ souls haven’t perished but are in fact surrounded by heavenly beings, beautiful hymns, and endless rivers.’ Similarly, the mothers of kamikaze pilots during World War II were probably consoled with comparable narratives, like ‘The glory of the nation and the distinguished esteem of Emperor Hirohito were surely worth your son’s sacrifice.’ These stories, emotionally charged and crafted to comfort, reflect similar sentiments across different cultures and times. How horrifying is the thought that we use superstition both to massacre and console each other.

Returning to our blind man, it’s reasonable to surmise that a wealth of such narratives is available to him, given his apparent religiosity. Whether his faith came before or after his misfortune is a matter for another discussion. It could be that he adopted these beliefs as a response to his challenges, or perhaps his existing faith provided the framework to interpret and cope with his suffering. Tell you what, consider the problem of evil,” Grimly continued. “It’s one of the oldest philosophical dilemmas: how can an all-powerful, all-knowing, and all-good deity allow suffering and evil to exist? Our blind man, facing immense hardship, embodies this paradox. His very existence challenges the notion of a benevolent higher power. Our blind man, enduring immense hardship, embodies a profound paradox. His very existence challenges the notion of a benevolent higher power. To me, he represents all those whose suffering is neither justifiable nor meaningful. Consider the tragic image of a baby born only to succumb years later to the agony of metastasized cancer. Such suffering defies explanation, highlighting the inexplicable cruelty that can exist in the world.

My curiosity, however, lies with those who lack the capacity or willingness to embrace such comforting fictions — those who are skeptical and intellectually honest, unable to deceive not just others, but themselves. Is this skepticism a virtue or a curse? In moments of despair, it often seems the latter; an absence of self-deception may leave one without the narratives that offer solace and meaning in the face of relentless adversity. Such honesty and skepticism, I suspect, prevent one from adopting beliefs that, while consoling, are ultimately grounded in wishful thinking.

Grimly paused, then added with a wry smile, “Well, enough of this grim philosophy. Let’s get back to our fantastic meal and toast to our existential crisis over guacamole.”

Dimitri chuckled, reluctantly lifting his glass. “To the absurdity of it all,