Several years ago I had a crisis of faith. It all began with a Science Channel television program on supermassive black holes, of all things. Basically the premise was that scientists have discovered giant black holes (like the size of an entire solar system) in the center of every galaxy, and each plays an important role in the creation and sustainability of its particular galaxy.
The scientists described the extreme order of these black holes in the whole universal space-time continuum and how it's forced them to rethink physics. The narrator, summing up several scientists, said, "If, as it now seems, every single galaxy has a black hole at its heart, this can't be a coincidence."
You got that right, I thought. It's called—we've got a supermassive, supergenius Creator at work in the universe.
Then the screen exploded with all these multi-colored, multi-shaped, multi-gaseous galaxies. And my brain, for an instant, exploded with how awesomely vast and mammoth our God is. My finite brain couldn't handle the size and power and strength of my Creator.
And in that instant, I felt thrust into my own black hole that was very dark and desperate.
Wait. How can this God possibly know anything about me? I thought dumbfounded. There's no personal relationship with him. Come on. He's busy creating galaxies. How presumptuous of us humans to believe God sent his Son to die for us—we're much too insignificant in the whole of the universe.1