Um, I’d challenge that to a very small extent. There is a partial answer. It’s not complete, and it’s quite unsatisfying. But it is there, and requires only the initial assumption of an omnipotent God (for the sake of the argument at least).
In a universe where there is an all-powerful God, for “Good” and “Evil” to mean anything, for “doing his will” to mean something more than automatons obeying their programming, free will must exist, and must be meaningful. I.e., faced with a moral choice, humans must, first, be able to choose freely between good and evil, and second, not be completely shielded from the consequences of their actions. In fact, any choice can be seen in this context. Far more Kansans are killed by tornadoes than Connecticutians, far more Floridians by hurricanes than Montanans. And it’s very rare to be killed in a Georgia blizzard, while numerous Northern state people run this risk every year. So even where you live is a choice with consequences.
Now, given that, and the supposition that God does care about the people He created, we have this difficult question of why He allows things we perceive as evil to happen. For that matter, why death anyway? It hurts the average person just as much to lose their parent at age 95 as it would at age 45; you’re just a little more inured to the idea by then.
This is where the reasonableness stops. “Mysterious ways” jump in. But I submit that one might allow Him the same license one allows a novelist or movie scriptwriter – that this seemingly random and senseless event will, when the full plot is disclosed, make sense in that larger context. That’s an element of the “faith=trust” thing I’ve been speaking of: that He, who is at least as good at surprise twists as O. Henry, is also as good at tying off loose ends and making the plot make sense when you’ve finished the story of your life. I’m seeing that now in my own life, as disparate experiences over 20 years of childhood and adolescence and 30 years of adulthood begin knotting themselves together to form a beautifully woven whole. The cloth is pretty ragged yet, but I have confidence in the Loommaster’s skill.
And there, perhaps, is an end on it. My wife ran into a haunting phrase some time ago: “Death is the ultimate healing.” If we’re only seeing, blurrily, half of the picture, with elements of that beyond the edge of our vision, how can we decide whether it’s a Mona Lisa, an American Gothic, or the sloppy fingerpainting of a kindergartener? Or distinguish that from random daubs left when the paintmixer in the next room threw a rod? That’s basically what we’re arguing about, from our limited perspectives.
