Dust and Dignity

Sunday Teaching

May 9

The full video of this teaching is available at the bottom of this post and this link.

PERFORMANCE

You would not call it a crisis. Not exactly. But something always feels like you are never quite reaching the goal line. The kids need rides. Your spouse needs more attention. Work needs better follow-through from you. And no matter how hard you try, it all feels... partially done. You do not feel lazy. You feel tired. And guilty for being tired. You keep telling yourself, I should do better. If I were as good as that person, I could keep up. No one’s saying you are failing, but it feels like you are quietly disappointing everyone.

Over 25 years of pastoral counseling, I can tell you—this is the number one conversation I have had with people. They do not usually have language for it, but what they are describing is Performance-Based Self-Worth.

And honestly, it makes sense. Before we ever meet Jesus, our culture trains us to think this way. We grow up learning that our worth is tied to our grades, sports stats, income, looks, and ability to impress. We are told to prove our value. Hustle. Grind. You are what you can make of yourself. So, of course, we carry that into adulthood and into our faith.

And here’s where it gets even more discombobulated: many people come to Christ through churches where the theology may be well-meaning, but the message sounds a lot like, “Try harder. Pray more. Serve until it hurts.” Before long, people start thinking God’s love works like a spiritual rewards program. You tithe. You serve. You behave. And if you slip up? Well… it is performance-based grace (yes, that is an oxymoron). And instead of being set free in Christ, people feel like Jesus is just another person they do not perform well enough for.

This is where Psalm 8 comes in nicely. Right in the middle of our striving, our exhaustion, our religious treadmill, comes this question:

“What are mere mortals that you should think about them,
human beings that you should care for them?” (v.4)

It is the question we all carry deep down: Why would I matter? But the psalm does not leave us there.

“Yet you made them only a little lower than God
and crowned them with glory and honor.” (v.5)

There it is. That one word—yet. It dismantles the whole performance system. We are not crowned because we crushed it. We are not valuable because we earned it. We are crowned because He made us. Glory and honor are not rewards. They are gifts. Spoken over us. Stamped into us. From the very beginning.

So if you feel like you are always falling short—at home, work, or church—hear this: God is not waiting for you to earn His attention. You already have it. You are not fighting for a crown; you are wearing one. The pressure to prove yourself ends here. Not because you figured it out but because God already said who you are. And He is not taking it back.

MEANING

For many in Gen Z (13–28 years), you would not say you are depressed exactly—there is just this low hum of uncertainty that never really goes away. Like life is happening around you, and you are just… observing it. You scroll. You show up—in class, at the gas station, at the forced family functions. You laugh when the moment calls for it. But deep down, you are thinking: Does any of this even matter?

I get why that question feels lowkey annoying. Define your own truth. Follow your own path. Become your own brand. That has been your generation’s internal hype track. But now you are learning that logging out of the pressure matrix and living “no rules, just vibes” can leave you feeling directionless. Add to that the constant noise of comparison and digital exhaustion—and it is no wonder so many in your generation are quietly wondering why they are even here.

And then Psalm 8 steps in with this stunning scene:

“When I look at the night sky and see the work of your fingers—
the moon and the stars you set in place—

what are mere mortals that you should think about them,
human beings that you should care for them?” (Psalm 8:3–4)

That is the question. Right there in the Bible. The same question you have asked yourself while staring at your phone in a crowded room: Do I even matter? And what Scripture does not do is rush past it. It holds it. Names it. Echoes it. And then answers it—not with a motivational quote or a productivity hack, but with something deeper: You matter because the God who made the galaxies still thinks about you. Still cares. Still sees.

So if that’s where you are—drifting, doubting, wondering if anything really matters—just know this: you are not crazy. You are asking the right questions. And the Psalms are the right place to ask them.

Do not settle for curating a version of yourself that looks like you have it all together. God does not bless filters—He meets the real you. And He places you in a real community. That ache to belong? That longing for rooted identity? You will not find it by building a brand—you will find it by planting your life among God's people.

Psalms show us what living in covenant with God and His people means. Not just privately, but in worship, in struggle, in story. You were not made to walk this out alone.

The local church is not just a place to attend—it is the body to which you belong, the family where your identity in Christ takes root and grows. Deepen your participation in the local church community as an antidote to digital isolation.

HOPELESSNESS IN SUFFERING

You prayed. You did what you were supposed to do. You tried to trust God. But the healing never came. The answer never showed up. The grief still lingers. And now—if you’re honest—hope feels too expensive. Like something other people can afford, but not you. You go through the motions. Smile when you need to. Say all the right things. But somewhere along the way, the ache hardened into silence. You are not bitter, exactly. You are just… tired. And maybe starting to believe that suffering is something to survive, not something God could actually meet you in.

I have heard that tone so many times—when people say things like, “I know God’s good, but…” followed by stories of loss, heartbreak, or years of unanswered prayers. What they are really saying is this: I do not want to give up on God, but I have quietly given up on hope. And I get it. When the odds are stacked so high against you it feels laughable to hope—you stop asking for rescue. You just try to make it to the next thing.

And then Psalm 8 gives us a quiet, defiant shift in perspective:

“When I look at the night sky and see the work of your fingers—
the moon and the stars you set in place—

what are mere mortals that you should think about them,
human beings that you should care for them?” (Psalm 8:3–4)

This is not just about wonder. It is about care. The Creator of the stars still cares for those hurting in the dark. That line alone is enough to crack open the silence and let the light back in. Because it means God sees what you are walking through. It means He has not gone quiet. You have not been forgotten. The sky you stare at when you cannot sleep is the same sky that declares His faithfulness night after night.

For each of you in the midst of suffering, sit on the chair in my office for a moment and let me encourage you with biblical truth: God is not offended by your pain. The Psalms are full of people who said the quiet parts out loud. People who asked, “How long, O Lord?” (Psalm 13). People who wept through the night and said they felt like their bones were wasting away (Psalm 6). People who said, “Why are you so far away when I groan for help?” (Psalm 22). And not once does God flinch.

So, if the ache has made you feel like a spiritual failure, hear this: the Psalms are proof that pain does not cancel your place in God's presence.

The suffering saint is not lesser.

The one barely holding on is not weak.

You are in good company.

David cried.

The poets groaned.

And still, they wrote.

Still, they worshiped.

Not because it was easy.

But because they knew God met them in the dark.

Psalm 34 says the Lord is close to the brokenhearted. Not the put-together. Not the already-healed. The brokenhearted. If that is you, then you are exactly who He promised to be near. So, no matter what you feel right now, hope is not out of reach. Even if all you can manage is to whisper, “Help,” that is enough. He hears. He sees. He cares.

PSALM 8 HEALS OUR BROKEN THINKING

These song lyrics of Psalm 8—call us back to Genesis 1 and 2. To the garden. To the ground. To the God who formed us from the dust with His hands and called it very good.

We are not cosmic accidents or self-made souls.

Yes, we are dust. But dust shaped—and life breathed into us—by God.

His image-bearers.

That is where dignity begins.

Not in what we do, but in who formed us—and who still sees us, crowns us, and calls us His.

I’ve only scratched the surface. Psalm 8 heals deeper fractures in how we see the world—and ourselves.

It corrects the dehumanization of self and others—the naturalist lie that says we are just evolved animals, that love and morality are illusions, that dignity is something we assign instead of something we’re given. But Psalm 8 says otherwise:

“You gave them charge of everything you made, putting all things under their authority…” (v.6).

We are entrusted—not accidental. Called—not random.

And it pulls us back from the edge of disordered worship of creation.

Yes, the night sky is breathtaking.

Yes, the world is worth stewarding.

But we were never meant to worship what was made.

We were meant to stand in awe of the One who made it.

Psalm 8:6-9 reorders our awe—placing the Creator above creation and reminding us that human life bears His image in a way the stars never could.

THAT'S WHY I LOVE THE PSALMS

The Psalms do not pretend life is tidy. They do not offer easy answers. They give us gut-level cries and whispered hallelujahs from caves, battlefields, and sleepless nights. These are the songs of people who bled, who lost, who got back up again—not because life was easy, but because even in a broken world, they still knew God was good.

Psalms is a book of reality and hope, rooted in the Torah and pointing toward the Messiah. It teaches us not to ignore the pain of our lives but to live with our eyes fixed on the promise of God’s Kingdom.

Come as you are—angry, victorious, tired, hopeful, undone. There is a psalm for you.

WHAT TO EXPECT FROM THIS FIVE-PART SERIES

This article is just the beginning. Over the next few installments, we are going to walk through one psalm from each of the five sections of the Book of Psalms—each one reflecting a movement that mirrors the story of the Torah: Genesis through Deuteronomy, Creation to Covenant, Wilderness to Worship—not in a rigid, one-to-one match but in a rhythm that carries the shape of God’s story—and ours. We will dig into the text, sit with its honesty, and explore how it still speaks right into our modern moments.

This is not just a study of poetry. This is a journey into a song playlist crafted by people who knew how to suffer and still sing. And it just might help us do the same.

Here is where we are headed:

Dust and Dignity, Psalm 8

Songs from the Waiting Room, Psalm 66

Songs from the Rubble, Psalm 73

Wilderness Songs of Renewal, Psalm 90

Steady Love and Strong Rescue, Psalm 107

Greg McNichols