Yesterday, I came across this poem by David Ignatow:
No theory will stand up to a chicken's guts
being cleaned out, a hand rammed up
to pull out the wiggling entrails,
the green bile and the bloody liver;
no theory that does not grow sick
at the odor escaping.
At first when I read it, I thought, yeah, that's right, Christianity and all theodicies represent only the theoretical, and therefore cannot begin to speak to the suffering in this world. Reality, by its very starkness, trumps everything that has to do with faith.
But then I thought, wait, what about the body and blood of Christ? Nothing is less theoretical and more visceral than incarnation.