This past year has been unusually hard for my family when it comes to pets.
About a year ago, we lost our dog unexpectedly. He wasn’t even eight years old, but after returning home from Thanksgiving (talk about horrible timing), he began showing signs of paralysis on one side of his body. The progression was shockingly fast, and before we could fully understand what was happening, he was beyond saving. He was our family dog.
Several months later, our 18-year-old cat passed away. And yes, we knew she was old. But this wasn’t just a “cat.” This was the cat my wife had before we were even dating. She had been part of our life for as long as there had been an “us.” We got married and came home to that cat waiting for us after our honeymoon. We brought our children home from the hospital with that cat in the house. She was always there.
I do not believe Scripture describes a God who is threatened by the honest cries of his children. In fact, I think the Bible goes out of its way to welcome it.
Then, a few months after we lost our dog, we brought home a puppy. She was four months old, and for the next six months, she brought joy, healing, energy, chaos, and life back into our home. And then a few weeks ago, out of nowhere, she became paralyzed in all four legs.
We are still clueless as to what happened. We spent more money than we ever thought we’d spend trying to find answers, trying treatments, and praying for a miracle. I dropped her off at a hospital to be monitored for a week or two, hoping this final treatment will work. The news, however, was not encouraging. The message from the vet was essentially, “We’ll do everything we can, but it doesn’t look good.” And then I got in the car and cried.
Little did I know that would be the last time I would see her alive.
As I was driving home, “The Author” by Brandon Lake and Nick Jonas came on the radio. For the most part, I like the song’s message. It reminds us that God is not done with broken people, and it points to a God who can use messy, imperfect lives for his purposes.
But I can’t get past the chorus line: “Who am I to question the pen in the hands of the Author?”
I visibly cringed when I heard it. It isn’t because I reject the idea that God is the Author. Of course, I believe he is sovereign, and he sees what I cannot see. I believe he is wiser than I am, holier than I am, stronger than I am, and more merciful than I can comprehend. As God reminds the prophet Isaiah, “my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways” (Isaiah 55:8).
But the idea that I can’t question him? Bull. I am a child of the King, and children can ask their Father questions. Ironically, I grew up without a father and still, the idea that I wouldn’t have the freedom to be completely honest with the one who brought me into the world baffles me.
Of course, that does not mean every question will receive an answer or that it will come quickly. It also doesn’t mean that God owes me an explanation on my timeline. But I do not believe Scripture describes a God who is threatened by the honest cries of his children. In fact, I think the Bible goes out of its way to welcome it.
Just consider the book of Psalms alone. “How long, O Lord?” (Psalm 13:1) is not the prayer of someone pretending everything is fine. “Why do you hide yourself?” (Psalm 10:1) is not neat, polished, religious language. “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” (Psalm 22:1) is not silent resignation. These are the words of people who believed enough in God to bring their confusion directly to him. After all, you don’t cry out to a God you don’t believe in.
Sadly, there is a kind of faith that our churches encourage that looks calm on the outside but is, in reality, just denial and avoidance. It doesn’t question God because it does not know what to do with the answers. It is afraid that grief, doubt, anger, and confusion might unravel faith altogether. So it stays quiet and calls silence “reverence” and the suppression of doubt “trust.”
But biblical lament shows us another way. It’s not unbelief, but rather, a faith that refuses to pretend everything is okay. It is the tension found deep in the soul of someone who still believes God is good, even when their life is falling apart around them. It is the sound of trust wrestling with reality. It is what happens when theology moves from an abstract page in the Bible to the hospital room, the funeral home, the silent drive home after bad news, or the empty place where the family pet used to sleep.
That’s why the Psalms have become such a lifeline for my spiritual formation. The early church father Athanasius once observed that “Most of Scripture speaks to us, but the Psalms speak for us.”1 That is the gift of the Bible’s prayer book. When we do not have words, the Psalms lend us theirs. When all we have is confusion, anger, fear, or sorrow, the Psalms teach us that those, too, are prayers. Honestly, they are probably our most real ones.
The Psalms do not rush us to a happy ending or pretend grief isn’t real. They do not scold us for feeling abandoned. They do not tell us to stop crying because God is sovereign. Instead, they take us by the hand and lead us into the presence of God with our tears still running down our faces—because sometimes the most faithful thing you can do is not try to explain your pain, but instead, bring it to God.
Habakkuk does this when he looks around at all the violence, injustice, and destruction and asks, “How long, LORD, must I call for help, but you do not listen? Or cry out to you, ‘Violence!’ but you do not save?” (Habakkuk 1:2). He does not understand what God is doing, and when God answers, Habakkuk still does not fully understand. But the book ends with one of the most profound statements of faith in Scripture: “Though the fig tree should not blossom… yet I will rejoice in the Lord.” (Habakkuk 3:17-18)
That kind of faith does not come from pretending we never had questions to ask. Rather, it comes from taking our questions into the presence of God and discovering that he is still there.
Job does the same. He loses almost everything and sits in the ashes. He grieves, argues, and asks why. Some of his questions are raw. Some of his comments can be uncomfortable to read. But God does not condemn Job for bringing his anguish before him. In fact, at the end of the book, God rebukes Job’s friends, the ones who had tidy explanations for suffering, and says they had not spoken rightly of him as Job had.
That should make us careful anytime we want to explain another person’s pain. Sometimes the most reverent thing is not to explain God’s ways too quickly. Sometimes the most faithful thing is to sit in the dust and say, “Lord, I do not understand.”
If we need still more proof that God welcomes the cries of his children, we need only look to Jesus. Jesus is not distant from suffering. He does not stand above human pain as an untouched observer. He enters it. He becomes flesh. He weeps at the tomb of Lazarus, even though he knows he will raise him just moments later.
The Son of God lamented. Think about that.
That means lament is not beneath faith. It is not beneath holiness. It is not beneath trust. Somehow, mysteriously and beautifully, lament belongs within the life of faith because even Jesus himself experienced it. Knowing the end of the story doesn’t mean we can’t cry at the sad parts.
So yes, I can question God. I can ask him why. I can ask him what he is doing. I can ask him how long this will last. I can tell him I am angry, confused, disappointed, weary, and upset. I can do that, not because I think I am above him, but because he has made me his child. The late Tim Keller once said, “The only person who dares wake up a king at 3:00 AM for a glass of water is a child. We have that kind of access.”2 No citizen would dare do that. No servant would presume such access. But a child would. A child has a kind of boldness that comes from belonging.
That is what we have in Christ. We don’t approach God as strangers, but as sons and daughters adopted by grace. We come by the Spirit, through the Son, to the Father. Hebrews 4:16 tells us to “approach God’s throne of grace with confidence.” That confidence isn’t about arrogance or entitlement; it’s the confidence we carry as beloved children who know that our Father may not answer every question the way we want, but he will not turn us away for asking.
That is the opportunity that “The Author” misses. The better question is not “Who am I to question?” but rather, “Where else would I take my questions?” If God is truly our Father, then I do not have to run from him with my doubts. I can run to him. That is the invitation of Scripture. We don’t have to pretend everything is certain, hide our grief, or clean ourselves up emotionally before we pray.
Just come. Come angry, but come. Come confused, but come. Come crying, but come. Come without answers, but come. Because God can handle it.
Frankly, I need a God who can handle it. I don’t have time for a fragile deity in the sky who is offended by his children’s questions. I’m not going to give my life to a distant dictator who demands that I pretend suffering does not hurt. I need the God revealed in Jesus Christ, the God who entered our pain in humanity, wept at gravesides, welcomed the weary, bore our sin on the cross, and conquered death from the inside.
I need a God big enough for my questions. And that is the God Scripture gives us. When I hear “The Author” now, I still hear much that is true. God is writing a story larger than I can see. He is merciful to broken people, and he uses what we would never choose. He is not finished with us. But when the song asks, “Who am I to question the pen in the hands of the Author?” I think Scripture gives a better answer: I am his child.
No, I’m not the author, the editor, or the one holding the pen. But I am a child of the one who is. And because of Christ, I do not have to stand at a distance, pretending I understand the plot. I can come near and bring my questions written in the margins. I can bring the tear-stained pages and ask my Father what he is doing, even when I may not receive the answer I long for. Because he is not afraid of our questions.
He entered the story himself, bore our sorrow, and took on our suffering. And because of his resurrection, he has promised that one day every broken chapter will be gathered up into a final word of restoration. But until then, I’ll keep bringing my questions to the Author. Because I am his child.