Very Organized Dust

Dust and Breath

“Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.” That’s what Priests and Pastors say when they put ash on your forehead. Actual ash, from last year’s Palms.

We are the same material that gathers on bookshelves and under beds. We’re also the same material as cosmic dust, planets, and comets. All of us subject to entropy. It’s the nature of being made of dust.

Psalm 39 feels appropriate today:

Show me, Lord, my life’s end

and the number of my days;

let me know how fleeting my life is.

You have made my days a mere handbreadth;

the span of my years is as nothing before you.

Everyone is but a breath…

Surely everyone goes around like a mere phantom.

In vain they rush about, heaping up wealth,

without knowing whose it will finally be.

But now, Lord, what do I look for?

My hope is in you.

A handbreadth. Four fingers. That’s the measure. All the rushing, accumulating, careful positioning, proving, and securing. Just the breathy dust of a phantom. (I am taking liberty. It’s too heavy otherwise.)

But notice this psalmist doesn’t ask for more time or victory. Doesn’t say, “Vanquish my foes. Save me, God, crush my enemies. Give me until next Tuesday.” They ask for clarity — Show me. Not fix it or guarantee me. Just show me. I want to know.

Honestly, Ash Wednesday clears the fog. “Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.”

You’re not permanent. You were never meant to be. This is a relief.

If I’m just dust, then I don’t have to carry eternity on my back. If I’m just breath, then I can stop pretending I control the wind.

Psalm 39 pivots right where you think, “Am I reading the Bible or a Beatnik poem?”

“But now, Lord, what do I look for? My hope is in you.”

That’s the turn. If everything I can build is temporary, then hope can’t be built there. Nothing can. Wealth, security, reputation — it’s all just very organized dust. All this political nonsense and cruelty? Very noisy mean dust.

Hope is something else. Something never dependent on us. God help us if it were. (We are messy dust.)

See, Lent is about scale. I am dust. I am breath. My days are a handbreadth. But none of it contains my hope.

Or, more succinctly said:

Stop trying to scale infinity using IKEA instructions.

You are dust. Act accordingly.

And hope anyway.