We wipe dust away without thinking.
It settles on shelves. It drifts through beams of light. It gathers in corners. We call it nuisance. Leftover. Refuse.
But dust becomes part of one of the most precise light displays on earth.
To understand why, we need to picture something simple: the atmosphere is not thicker at sunset — the sunlight simply travels through more of it.
Imagine standing in an open field at noon. The sun is high overhead. Its rays come almost straight down. The light passes through a relatively short column of air before reaching your eyes.
Now imagine late evening. The sun is near the horizon. Its rays are no longer coming straight down. They enter the atmosphere at a shallow angle. Instead of dropping vertically through a thin column of air, the light slices sideways through the atmosphere, traveling across it.
It is the same atmosphere. The same thickness.
But the path is dramatically longer.
A simple comparison helps. Think of shining a flashlight straight down through a shallow tank of water. The beam passes through quickly. Now tilt the flashlight so the beam travels diagonally across the tank from one side to the other. The water is not deeper — the path through it is longer.
That . . . is what . . . happens at sunset.
When the sun is overhead, sunlight may pass through roughly one atmosphere’s worth of air. When it sits near the horizon, that path can increase dozens of times. The light must move through more gas molecules, more water vapor, more suspended dust, more aerosols.
And every encounter matters.
As sunlight enters the atmosphere, shorter wavelengths — blue and violet — are scattered strongly by the tiny nitrogen and oxygen molecules. This is Rayleigh scattering. During midday, this scattering sends blue light in every direction, painting the sky above us.
But when the sun lowers and its light must travel that extended path, the blue wavelengths are scattered out of the direct beam long before it reaches us. With each additional mile of air, more blue is redirected away.
What survives that journey are the longer wavelengths — red, orange, deep amber.
Now dust becomes more influential.
When light encounters particles closer in size to its wavelength — soil fragments, sea salt, smoke, pollen — Mie scattering occurs. This type of scattering is less selective and tends to push light forward, spreading the remaining reds and oranges across the horizon. The extended path length increases the number of these interactions. More collisions. More filtering. More diffusion.
The sky is not changing color because the sun changes.
It changes because of distance.
Because of angle.
Because of how far light must travel through the medium Jehovah designed.
There is also subtle curvature at play. The earth is round. When the sun is near the horizon, its rays skim along the curved surface of the planet, grazing through the densest layers of air before emerging toward us. The lower atmosphere holds most of the dust and moisture. So when the light enters at that shallow angle, it passes through the richest concentration of scattering material.
That is why the horizon glows.
Not because the air is thicker there — but because the light has taken the long road.
And the long road transforms it.
Psalm 104:24 says:
“How many your works are, O Jehovah! You have made all of them in wisdom. The earth is full of your productions.”
Even geometry participates in that wisdom. Angle. Distance. Density. Wavelength. Each factor interlocks with the others. If the atmosphere were much thinner, scattering would be weak and the sky would appear dark. If much thicker, sunlight would struggle to reach the surface clearly. If particulate levels were wildly unstable, sunsets would lack consistency.
Instead, there is law-governed balance.
The same dust we sweep aside becomes the filter that softens daylight into gold. The same molecules that scatter blue into the noon sky later remove it from the evening beam. The longer path does not create color; it reveals what remains after selective scattering has done its quiet work.
Jehovah makes the most beautiful things out of dust.
Man and woman, formed from it.
Sunrises and sunsets, intensified through it.
What seems small participates in a system of angles and laws so precise that the sky ignites on schedule every evening somewhere on earth. Light takes the long road — and because it does, we are given crimson.
The earth is full of His productions.
Full of dust.
Full of geometry.
Full of light traveling farther than we realize.
Did you feel, as your read this, your words speed up. The comprehension was often simple and sublime. Your reading may have felt like you need to pause. To put it all together. To catch your breath.
Because when you see the real thing . . . the sunrise or sunset, It just takes your breath away!