My closest friend of 25 years is dying of acute lymphoblastic leukemia, lying in a hospice after she wisely refused chemo that could have killed her anyway, seizing a few days, a week or two, who knows, certainly not "God." I shouldn't go into Mackie, but what the hey, I will. If "God" is omnipotent, he cannot be good, since an omnipotent "God" would not let as precious a person as my Ellie die of a blood disease. That was Mackie's argument against the existence of "God," and that Old Time Religion is good enough for me.
Yet, when I visit her in the hospice, Camus's Meursault comes to mind as well. I think of the final scene in The Stranger when Meursault, a condemned man, looks up at "the benign indifference of the universe." That is what awaits my friend, not some graybeard at a Graceland gate. At least she has chosen cremation, which spares her heirs of expensive caskets and such. But the family has brought her Booble to the room, as well as a cross, and not to forget those horrid little books one finds in the supermarket about faith, hope, love, and such, all written from a Christian point of view.
I must suppose I am in denial. I haven't had a good cry. But I sometimes feel like my favorite character in a Bergman movie, the writer-father in Through a Glass Darkly who helplessly watches his daughter go insane; helpless because he wants to use her schizophrenia as a subject for a story.