Why do I take myself so seriously?
Acting as if everything depends on me,
I have this tendency where I place myself at the centre of the universe,
And there are perks . . . at least at first.
But this is ultimately for the worse, cause my inflated self-importance
Imports a pressure that I was not made to withstand.
It’s too heavy a burden to command my own destiny,
To carry sole responsibility for reshaping reality.

I am dust.
Just a tenuous coalition of carbon, oxygen and several other elements.
An immensely small alliance on a trajectory towards decay.
But there’s this tension at play,
Cause the eternal King of the Universe moulded me out of clay.

I am astronomically small, a partnership of particles . . .
Signed by the divine hand.
I am just a man, a bipedal clump of sand.
But I was planned,
And apparently the act of creating me brought the creator delight.
So you might say that I am dearly loved dust.

And that’s all of us.
Every single person precious,
You NEED to get this!
You were made by him. Therefore you belong to him.
Therefore you are treasured by the only eyes that matter.
This is your significance served on a silver platter:
Infinite value given to you completely unearned.
And he is so concerned with us,
So committed to our thriving.

We are made in his image:
Beautifully derivative, intimately dependent.
We are dirt and divine breath.
And if that spirit left,
We would just start to dissolve, decompose back into the dirt.

We are a flirtation between heaven and earth,
Worth so much in the eyes of the divine. And why?
I can find no reason hiding within my dust,
No apparent justification inherent to my particles
I suspect God is just sentimental.
And all our value is relational.
It’s one hundred percent personal:
We’re not just dust . . . we’re HIS dust.

There is no reason within our resumes that he should give us a second glance.
And yet he took on flesh and was crucified so he could give us a second chance.
Why does he love us so much?
It’s not because my component parts hold any value,
And if I look into my heart,
That is a dark place with plenty of reasons for God to turn away.
And yet he stays.

We were designed as an interplay between heaven and earth,
A living breathing overlap of these two dimensions.
Yet . . . we are dirt in rebellion.

There’s nothing wrong with dust being dusty,
But there is something wrong with dust getting uppity.
And we are arrogant dirt, attempting mutiny against our master.
We are treasured by the owner of every galaxy, We’re the crown jewel of all creation.
What more could this carbon possibly want?
Apparently, we want divinity. We want to be king.
To be free from all authority, no matter how good.

But dust should not have absolute dominion,
Human history is painted by the blood of our decisions.
And it is too easy to identify that evil in everyone except me.
We trust ourselves implicitly, convinced OUR dust is higher quality

No, we were made for humility . . . Literally.
The origin of the word refers to the ground: “Humus”, that’s us. Human.
Dearly loved dust. Priceless but purposefully not autonomous.

So, thank God, I am not the captain of my own destiny.
I don’t have the authority to decide why I was made. It’s above my pay-grade.
And deciding what is good and what is evil,
Isn’t something dust is qualified to do.
Nor can we choose whichever truth we like best.

And while that might sound restrictive, it’s actually a relief.
I can release all this pressure of holding the world together,
God is better equipped to deal with that stuff anyways.
I don’t need to trailblaze, or polish up my resumes.
I don’t need to “save the day” like some comic book hero
Don’t need to carve my legacy into the uncaring pages of history,
Don’t need to desperately “leave my mark” lest I be forgotten;
Cause God does not forget his children.
My Father in heaven is my perfect provider,
The ultimate baker of my daily bread.
And my anxiety can be replaced by peace and simplicity,
Trusting my Good Father cause he is fully in charge.
I am loved, but not large.
Valued, but not in control.
Reality won’t unroll just because I let go,
Don’t need to defend my over-inflated ego.
I don’t need to know everything
Or constantly justify why I matter.
And when my life clatters to the floor cause of the choices that I’ve made . . .
I don’t need to persuade myself that I was actually right.
There is a lightness in stepping off the throne,
In yielding that authority to the One who wields it wisely.
There is freedom in trusting the Good King,
Then coming humbly, simply, as dearly loved dust.