There's something deeply unsettling about the gap between the infinite and the finite, between the eternal and the temporal. How can the God who existed before time began—the one who set the stars in motion and breathed galaxies into existence—possibly relate to us? How can we, bound by time and space, limited by our mortality and marred by our brokenness, ever truly know the Creator of all things?

We've been tricked into thinking that church happens on Sunday mornings. We've systemized, industrialized, and Americanized the church into a consumer experience. We show up expecting to be fed, entertained, and sent on our way—transaction complete.

But the church was never meant to fit into our world. It was meant to reveal a whole new world.

The weight of worry sits heavy on our shoulders. We lie awake at 3 AM, our minds racing through every possible scenario for the next week, month, or year. We calculate our bank accounts, mentally review our to-do lists, and rehearse conversations that haven't happened yet. We've become experts at time travel—not the fun kind, but the exhausting journey into imagined futures filled with potential disasters.