In this book, Lewis describes the the intense pain of losing his deepest love. He asks lots of questions to God, and questions his theology in many different ways. I love the conclusion he makes in the final chapter:
When I lay these questions before God I get no answer. But a rather special sort of "No answer." It is not the locked door. It is more like a silent, certainly not uncompassionate, gaze. As though He shook His head not in refusal but waiving the question. Like 'Peace, child; you don't understand.'
Can a mortal ask questions which God finds unanswerable? Quite easily, I should think. All nonsense questions are unanswerable. How many hours are there in a mile? Is yellow square or round? Probably half the questions we ask -- half our great theological and metaphysical problems -- are like that.
People were always asking Jesus the wrong questions. I'm thinking of His encounter with the woman at the well. The people were arguing about which mountain they were supposed to worship from ... they asked Jesus, and He responded that they were asking the wrong question ... that the mountain was irrelevant, and that God was looking for worshippers who would worship in Spirit and in Truth.
I'm wondering how often I ask God stupid questions -- they don't seem stupid to me, but they are completely irrelevant to the big picture. I'm so thankful that His love is patient.