We Are Insects

(September 4, 2019)

We are insects, small creatures that live and move and walk on this blue and green dust ball.

We pick our battles, collect our food, bring our portions forward. We shake our fists towards the heavens, start fights we can’t finish, “for ourselves, for humanity... for ourselves.”

We have little legs, little mouths, little heads, bodies, little emotions, little thoughts—at least when you’re at a bird's eye view, or how about a satellite view. One wonders how big we must look from the sun’s view, or another galaxy.

We are insects, tiny creatures that live and move and walk on this blue and green dust ball.

He sees.

There is one who watches these creatures in their everyday living. Yet they pretend to be quite busy and unaware of Him. Their paper piling, food collecting, world-changing, as well as fighting and yelling, are a little too great at the present moment to notice Him.

He sees.

But He is kind.

He is kind to not retrieve His very breath back to Himself, sucking it from our frail lungs.

He is patient to not untwine or crush our feeble legs that run so rapidly away from Him.

He is gracious to hear our pathetic mouths curse Him hourly, yet restrain from filling them with clay and closing them shut.

How His ears must burn, and His eyes become filled with fire as He stares at the small beings who ignore Him daily and claim to be the masters of their own lives.

“I created myself”... “I can find my path in the dark with my all-seeing eyes, unmuddled feelings, and infinite knowledge.”

For truly, who would need such a God if this were true? What freedom, what blissful self-actualization and independent triumph.

But if such a claim were wrong, or even the slightest bit off, what a tragic disaster might these little creatures find themselves running towards. They beg Him for their ruin. They beg Him to be damned. Anything, oh anything, but to trust and submit themselves to such a cruel creator who gave them the very legs they use to run from Him with. Anything, oh anything, but to thank the One who gifted them the mouths they use to curse Him with. Anything, oh anything, but to acknowledge the one who granted them the very eyes they refuse to look at Him with.

Anything, oh anything, but to love the One who originated such a beautiful thing as love and demonstrated it so nobly by coming in such little form and dying for a creation that would not—no matter the gift or the warning—recognize Him to be their God.