The Problem With Evil

While studying for my philosophy degree, there were a few things I couldn’t quite get onboard with.  While I like to think this would be par for the course for any philosophy student, there is one in particular I think deserves  a second look.  I call it, “The Problem With Evil”.  You might say that this already exists; every single person has grappled with the problem of evil at one or more points in their lives.  

This is not that.

As a refresher, the problem OF evil simply says if God is all good and all benevolent, why is their evil in the world?  Either he is not all benevolent (for he would eliminate it) or he cannot possibly be all powerful, for if he were he would have the power to eliminate evil.  I have no real interest in furthering that discussion today.  Many articles already exist on this subject that do not bear me adding to it.  However, there is an aspect I think gets overlooked and is, frankly, more meaningful to the average person.  But like any good philosopher, we have to define our terms.  So, what is evil?

Augustine and Aquinas on Evil

The starting point for almost every classical conversation on evil is St. Augustine. In his Confessions and City of God, Augustine argues that evil cannot be a “thing” in itself. If it were, God would have had to create it—and that would implicate God as the author of evil. Instead, Augustine insists that evil is a corruption or privation (privatio boni) of the good. Like rust on iron, it does not exist apart from the iron but feeds on it, distorts it, and eventually consumes it. Augustine’s brilliance was in showing that evil has no independent substance, only a parasitic existence.

Centuries later, St. Thomas Aquinas would refine and systematize Augustine’s insight. In the Summa Theologiae, Aquinas explains that “evil is not an essence but the absence of good which ought to be present.” He extends Augustine’s image by applying it across the natural and moral order. Blindness is not a new entity but a lack of sight where sight should exist. Likewise, injustice is the absence of right order in the will. For Aquinas, this definition safeguards God’s goodness: God only creates being, and being is good. Evil is not created but emerges when good is diminished, twisted, or left incomplete.

This view is tidy, logical, and elegant. It allows theologians to maintain God’s goodness and human freedom without collapsing into dualism—two equal forces of good and evil locked in eternal combat. This way of putting it is clean, logical, even elegant. It protects God’s goodness while still leaving room for human freedom. On paper, it makes sense.

The classical definition of evil is, “a privation of good” meaning evil is nothing more than a lack of good.  A typical example would be a hole.  Holes do not exist on their own; they are given shape by the removal or lack of the soil around it.  Or in the case of your favorite pair of socks.  Evil would be the hole in the arch that slowly grows over time consuming the GOOD of the fabric around it.  It is only this consumption that provides any real shaping to the hole.  You can hold a pair of socks but you can’t exactly hold a hole; it doesn’t exist without good.

I don’t like this.

While I agree with this on an intellectual level my heart screams against it on a very real level.  Why?  Because in short, if you have encountered evil it just seems…more.  It’s more than just “lacking the Good”.  And yet, the problem with evil is not merely logical but experiential. When someone lies to you, betrays you, or worse—when cruelty is inflicted upon the innocent—does it really feel like an absence? Of course not. It feels like a presence. A malignant weight. A force that intrudes, corrodes, and consumes. The privation theory may be correct on paper, but when you are in the depths of grief or injustice, the notion that “nothing is happening” does violence to reality.

This, I think, is the deeper problem with evil: how it is lived. Evil is parasitic, yes, but parasites still crawl, still cling, still draw blood. It may lack substance in itself, but it uses what is good to attack, twist, and deform. A counterfeit coin is not true currency, but it can still ruin a life if slipped into a hand at the right moment.

Socrates: Evil Lived and Suffered

But long before Augustine or Aquinas ever wrote a word, Socrates had already grappled with evil—not as an abstract puzzle, but as a lived reality. For him, the worst possible evil was not what could be done to him, but what he might do himself. In Plato’s dialogues, Socrates repeats the conviction that it is better to suffer wrong than to commit it. Why? Because injustice corrodes the soul of the one who commits it. To do evil is to deform oneself, to live out of harmony with truth and goodness.

When Socrates was condemned to death, he drank the hemlock without bitterness. The Athenians had done him wrong, but he did not believe they had truly harmed him. His body could be destroyed, but his soul—so long as he did not betray it—remained untouched. Here we see evil not as a tidy “privation,” but as something that cuts both ways: it inflicts suffering upon the innocent, and it devours the one who chooses it.

This perspective resonates with experience. Evil is not just a hole in the fabric of being; it is the weight of injustice borne by the victim and the corruption endured by the perpetrator. Socrates reminds us that the “problem with evil” is not only how it fits into a system of logic, but how it feels when it is lived.

And this is where my heart begins to push back against Augustine and Aquinas. On paper, evil as a privation makes sense. It safeguards God’s goodness, it ties neatly into logic, it avoids the trap of dualism. But when you encounter evil in the real world, it feels like more than just an absence.

Socrates helps us here. He reminds us that evil is not only thought, it is lived and suffered. For him, the worst evil was not death, poverty, or disgrace—it was committing injustice and deforming the soul. When he was condemned to die, he did not lament the Athenians’ cruelty as the greatest evil. Instead, he believed the true harm would have been if he had answered evil with evil, if he had let bitterness or revenge rule his soul.

And yet even here, Socrates names what Augustine’s “privation” language struggles to capture: evil is not only an absence. It is a presence in the way it corrodes the soul of the wrongdoer and weighs upon the innocent who suffers it. Evil is not a “thing” in itself, but it acts upon us like a thing. It moves, it scars, it presses in. It may be parasitic, but parasites are alive.

This, then, is the “problem with evil”: when we suffer it, we don’t experience a lack—we experience something that feels darkly alive.

The Devil and the Personal Reality of Evil

If Augustine and Aquinas are right that evil has no substance of its own, then why does it so often feel like it does? Why does it feel active, intentional, even intelligent? The Christian tradition answers with one word: the devil.

Here we are not talking about a cartoon figure with horns and a pitchfork. Scripture describes him as the “father of lies,” “the accuser,” the one who prowls like a roaring lion seeking someone to devour. The devil is not an equal opposite to God—he is a created being, an angel who chose against God. But in that choice, he became the living embodiment of evil’s parasitic nature. He cannot create, only corrupt. He cannot give life, only twist and drain what already exists.

This is why evil so often feels like more than a mere “lack of good.” Because when you encounter the work of the devil—whether in temptation, deception, or violence—it feels personal. Evil can masquerade as opportunity, whisper in your ear, press on you until you collapse under its weight. That is not the passivity of an absence; it is the strategy of an enemy.

And here is where the “problem with evil” takes on its sharpest edge. Evil is not simply something we analyze; it is something that seeks us out. If the devil is real, then evil is not only a philosophical puzzle but a battlefield.

How We Give Evil Its Shape

If evil is a privation, and the devil is its great manipulator, then perhaps our own actions are what give evil its terrible weight in the world. We give it hands and feet, a voice and a body, every time we choose it. On its own, evil is nothing—it is a hole, a gap, a vacancy. But when we lie, cheat, betray, or strike, we take that absence and press it into flesh and blood. We give it shape.

This is why evil feels so much like a “thing.” It becomes embodied in human action. Cain’s jealousy became murder. Judas’s despair became betrayal. In every age, the devil can only whisper, only distort. But it is human beings who carry those whispers into reality—who sculpt absence into presence by making choices that deform the good.

This is both terrifying and clarifying. Terrifying, because it means evil has as much power as we are willing to lend it. Clarifying, because it reminds us that the opposite is also true: when we choose rightly, we starve evil. When we refuse to lend it our hands, it remains what it is—an absence, a shadow without substance.

Living With the Problem With Evil

So where does this leave us? Augustine and Aquinas were right: evil is not its own independent thing. It does not rival God, it has no substance, it is always parasitic. But Socrates helps us see that evil is lived and suffered, not just defined. The devil shows us that evil is personal, strategic, and cunning. And our own choices explain why it feels so present—because we lend it our strength. We give it weight by giving it our hands, our voices, our consent.

That is the problem with evil: not simply that it exists, but that it borrows its power from us. Evil is terrifying not because it is strong, but because it is persuasive. It leans on us to give it shape, and when we do, it multiplies.

The good news is that the opposite is also true. Every time we choose to forgive instead of resent, every time we tell the truth instead of lie, every time we resist the temptation to wound another, we starve evil of its substance. It remains a hollow shadow, unable to stand.

This is why the spiritual life is not optional. Confession, prayer, vigilance, the armor of God—all of these are not rituals for the pious few, but survival skills for anyone who refuses to be a sculptor of shadows. Evil is real, but it is borrowed power. And when enough of us refuse to lend it our hands, it collapses back into what it always was: nothing.