Dust and glory

I recently rewatched one of my favorite old episodes of Anthony Bourdain’s Parts Unknown, the one where he goes to Koreatown in Los Angeles but doesn’t eat, as one might expect, braised short ribs at Sun Nong Dan or knife-cut noodles at Hangari. Instead, he goes to Sizzler for overdone steak and an “incongruous combination” of dubious items from the salad bar. Later, a pit stop finds him in Little Bangladesh enjoying curried goat stew, followed by a drive-through run to Jollibee for Filipino fast food. Sitting in the car with a mouth full of halo-halo, Bourdain declares, “Wow, there’s so much I don’t know.”

It’s the trait that endeared so many to the celebrity chef: his ability to avoid turning his nose up at others, to stay close to the ground wherever he found himself. Few stars have been as adept as Bourdain was at closing the gap between highbrow and lowbrow.

Not long ago, I had a similar gap-closing experience reading Genesis 1–2, one that had me looking down at the ground with more attention and curiosity. Scholars have spilled much ink on the two creation stories in these opening chapters of scripture, and I have always found the contrasts between the two narratives to be fertile homiletical ground. We’re from the dust of the earth, but we’re also bearers of God’s image. One teaches humility; the other evokes glory. Or so I have often expounded. This approach has the effect of widening the gap between dust and glory, between humanity and divinity. We see heaven and earth as opposites that have little to do with each other. Such easy dualisms may say more about my modern lens for reading the Bible than about the text itself.