Ecclesiastes: 1. The Great Experiment

In asking me to lead a discussion on Ecclesiastes, Dr. Weaver probably knew he was taking a risk. He probably knew I would not be able to resist approaching it from my perspective as a futurist. 

The book’s author and narrator is commonly thought to be King Solomon (though some dispute that), and he tends to be called the Teacher or the Preacher in most translations. I’ve settled on the Preacher.

Ecclesiastes was written more than two thousand years ago in a world without electricity, computers, genetics, spacecraft, or AI. Yet the issues and questions that trouble the Preacher have remained relevant for over two millennia. Why? Because we have remained human over that period. We have barely changed. Does anyone here think you are wiser than Solomon was?

Ecclesiastes is about human issues, human questions. I hereby acknowledge a belief that will shock you all, and will horrify Connie. It is that we are no longer “just human.” We are becoming inextricably intertwined with technology. We are an embryonic new species—cyborgs, Homo cyborgensis—and we are evolving at an accelerating pace. 

But I am getting ahead of myself. I do want to honor the spirit of Dr. Weaver’s invitation to give this series of talks, so the bulk of what I have to say will be about the book’s impact on us purely as human beings. But I will be returning to the shocking bits in the fifth of these five talks.

Most people, as we’ve often remarked in class since Dr. Weaver first mentioned it, years ago, approach the Bible looking for answers. Ecclesiastes is unusual because it begins with a question, and not just any question. It is perhaps the biggest question any human being can ask: What is the point of life? in a world where “…all is vanity.” (As he tells us in Ecclesiastes 1:2) The Hebrew word hevel translated as “vanity” actually means vapor, mist, or breath. In other words, it is something that seems substantial, but actually slips easily through the fingers. It cannot be grasped. 

The Preacher is not just saying that life is hard. We all know that. He is saying it’s pointless.

One generation passeth away, and another generation cometh: but the earth abideth for ever.

The sun also ariseth, and the sun goeth down, and hasteth to his place where he arose.

The wind goeth toward the south, and turneth about unto the north; it whirleth about continually, and the wind returneth again according to his circuits.

All the rivers run into the sea; yet the sea is not full; unto the place from whence the rivers come, thither they return again. (Ecclesiastes 1:4–7)

Nothing seems to change. The Preacher looks at nature and sees repetition, endless cycles. He observes history and human ambition and sees the same cycles, the same repetition. The world appears to be moving, yet somehow standing still. Shakespeare noticed that too, when he made Macbeth say, after his wife’s suicide: 

Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day
To the last syllable of recorded time

And concludes:

Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.

Don’t we all feel that way from time to time? We wake up, work, eat, sleep, pay our bills, and repeat. We watch governments rise and fall, Summers come and go. The cycle continues. As homo sapiens, the Preacher’s questions are our questions.

He evidently places no stock in revelation, or doctrine, or miracles. He looks upon the world as a social scientist or cultural anthropologist would look at it. He runs experiments to find out what life is really about. One of his experiments is to see if it’s all about having a good time:

I said to myself, “Come now, I will test you with pleasure to find out what is good.” (Ecclesiastes 2:1)

Another is to see if life’s all about being knowledgeable:

So I reflected on all this and concluded that the righteous and the wise and what they do are in God’s hands, but no one knows whether love or hate awaits them. (Ecclesiastes 9:1)

And another experiment is to see it life’s all about corruption:

… I saw something else under the sun:

In the place of judgment—wickedness was there,
in the place of justice—wickedness was there. (Ecclesiastes 3:16)

He observes, he tests, he compares, and draws conclusions, all in the laboratory of life itself. 

His research question is simple: What happens when a person pursues everything that human beings normally pursue? He examines life from the perspective of ordinary human experience “under the sun”—that’s a phrase he uses repeatedly, so you can bet it has meaning. He offers no theological answers, just his observations and what he concludes from them.

His first topic is what he calls wisdom, but I am going to argue that means just learning.

“I gave my heart to know wisdom.” (Ecclesiastes 1:17)

It’s a reasonable place to start. If understanding can reveal the meaning of life, then wisdom—in the sense of learning—should surely provide the answer. But he discovers a paradox. Knowledge acquired through learning enlarges awareness, but that awareness does not necessarily bring satisfaction. In fact, the more he learns about the world under the sun, the more clearly he sees its sorrows, injustices, and limitations. 

He concludes:

… with much wisdom comes much sorrow;
the more knowledge, the more grief. (Ecclesiastes 1:18).

If life has a discoverable meaning, then learning should reveal it and enable us to understand the world more clearly by helping us to discriminate between prudence and foolishness, truth and lies, justice and injustice. The problem is that discrimination can be disillusioning and dispiriting. 

The better the Preacher understands the world, the more clearly he sees its contradictions. The wise suffer alongside the foolish. The righteous often fare no better than the corrupt. Human achievement remains at the whim of time and chance. The law of cause and effect doesn’t seem to apply.

The problem is not that wisdom is useless. Throughout the book he repeatedly affirms that wisdom is better than its opposite, folly or foolishness. The problem is that wisdom does not explain life’s contradictions nor its purpose, and, as far as the Preacher could tell, it does not free us from our mortality. Wisdom illuminates life’s mysteries, it does not resolve them.

In chapter 2, he turns from wisdom to pleasure.

I said to myself, “Come now, I will test you with pleasure to find out what is good.”(Ecclesiastes 2:1)

He explores entertainment, laughter, wine, comfort, luxury, only to discover that:

… that also proved to be meaningless. (Ecclesiastes 2:1)

And that:

“Behold, all was vanity and vexation of spirit.” (Ecclesiastes 2:11)

Pleasure can distract us from existential questions, but, like wisdom, it cannot answer them.

So how about accomplishment? He went to great lengths to find out: 

I undertook great projects: I built houses for myself and planted vineyards. I made gardens and parks and planted all kinds of fruit trees in them. I made reservoirs to water groves of flourishing trees. I bought male and female slaves and had other slaves who were born in my house. I also owned more herds and flocks than anyone in Jerusalem before me. I amassed silver and gold for myself, and the treasure of kings and provinces. I acquired male and female singers, and a harem as well—the delights of a man’s heart. I became greater by far than anyone in Jerusalem before me. In all this my wisdom stayed with me.

I denied myself nothing my eyes desired;
    I refused my heart no pleasure.
My heart took delight in all my labor,
    and this was the reward for all my toil. (Ecclesiastes 2:4-10)

Now there’s a catalogue of success to impress any modern billionaire! But there turned out to be a catch:

Yet when I surveyed all that my hands had done
    and what I had toiled to achieve,
everything was meaningless, a chasing after the wind;
    nothing was gained under the sun.

Then I turned my thoughts to consider wisdom,
    and also madness and folly.
What more can the king’s successor do
    than what has already been done?
I saw that wisdom is better than folly,
    just as light is better than darkness.
The wise have eyes in their heads,
    while the fool walks in the darkness;
but I came to realize
    that the same fate overtakes them both. (Ecclesiastes 2:5-14)

In chapter 3, the Preacher writes his famous poem acknowledging the rhythms of existence. Most readers hear this poem as a celebration of life’s harmony. We may discover, in a future talk, that it may be something more unsettling than that. The poem includes not only birth and healing, but killing, hatred, and war. The Preacher is not celebrating these realities; he is just honestly describing the world as he finds it.

To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven:

A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted;

A time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up;

A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance;

A time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together; a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing;

A time to get, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to cast away;

A time to rend, and a time to sew; a time to keep silence, and a time to speak;

A time to love, and a time to hate; a time of war, and a time of peace.

 (Ecclesiastes 3:1-8)

Human life unfolds within a framework larger than individual control. We participate in time. We do not command it.

Very soon after this poem comes what I think is the most important verse in the entire book:

He has made everything beautiful in its time. He has also set eternity in the human heart… (Ecclesiastes 3:11)

Now, I have to tell you that the translation of the word eternity here, which is so crucial to my interpretation of the book, is hotly disputed. To some, it is the opposite. I won’t go into it, but I have read both sides and I have tried to put myself in the Preacher’s place. I am convinced that eternity is what he meant because it explains why finite, mortal creatures as we are possess infinite longings. We live for three score years and ten, yet we think and dream in time without endy. We occupy a mere speck of cosmic dust, yet we contemplate the universe. We know we will die (though, more on that later), yet still we yearn for immortality.

So the Preacher says that something has been placed within us that does not fit comfortably inside a time bound existence. We hunger for more than survival: We hunger for meaning. We hunger for transcendence. We hunger for eternity, because we can feel its presence in our hearts.

This observation is also important because it, rather than doctrine, ritual, or theology, may be the foundation of all spirituality. It suggests that doctrine, ritual, and theology are just our attempts to understand and respond to something already present within us, alone among God’s creatures. We can’t stop asking questions that exceed the boundaries of ordinary life, in search of meaning.

Every culture in history has attempted to bring spirituality to life and to expand it through art, music, philosophy, religion, science, and mythology. We build monuments intended to outlast us. We preserve memories of the dead. Today, we even create realistic avatars of the dead, bringing them back to virtual life, to be talked with. We ask questions about origins and destiny. Why do we do such things? From a purely biological perspective, they are unnecessary. They don’t put food on the table, fend off predators, or reproduce. Yet they are everywhere.

Ecclesiastes offers the eternity in the heart as the explanation. As finite creatures who somehow think infinite thoughts, we imagine times before our birth and after our death. We contemplate billions of years of cosmic history, and we imagine futures we will never see. Perhaps spirituality begins precisely there—not in answers, but in questions that exceed the limits of our mortal existence.

Suppose the Preacher were alive today. I suspect he would not be especially impressed with our smartphones, quantum computers, or artificial intelligence. He would ask the same questions he asks of wealth, pleasure, and power: “Does it solve the problem of meaning?” If we cure every disease, double the human lifespan, eliminate poverty, and build cities on Mars—all of which are now distinctly possible—does the question of meaning disappear? Or will people still wake up in the morning wondering why they even exist?

The Preacher’s genius is that he separates two questions that we often conflate. One is: how to live? The other is: why to live? Technology is becoming extraordinarily good at answering the first question. Ecclesiastes is concerned with the second.

For much of human history, people sought meaning through religion, family, tribe, nation, or community. Today, many seek it through technology, science, progress, longevity research, artificial intelligence, and through dreams of overcoming aging and perhaps even death itself. In a way, humanity is conducting its own version of the experiment of Ecclesiastes, trying to discover if meaning can be found in knowledge, prosperity, technological power, extending life indefinitely, or some combination thereof.

Over the coming weeks we will follow the Preacher through the rest of his investigation. We will examine wisdom, mortality, work, pleasure, justice, time, faith, and the search for meaning. We will continue exploring the question that drives the entire book: not merely how to live, but why to live.

I hope you will find, as I have, that the most skeptical book in the Bible is also one of the most spiritual. The Preacher rejects easy answers. He takes human experience seriously. He acknowledges doubt. He confronts suffering. He concedes mortality. He follows the evidence wherever it leads, even when the conclusions are uncomfortable. 

But I think we need to re-open his inquiry, because its key independent variable is in the process of changing. For the first time in history, humanity possesses tools that may radically alter intelligence, lifespan, communication, and perhaps even the nature of consciousness itself. We may eventually answer questions that previous generations could not even ask.

But Ecclesiastes raises a possibility we should not ignore. It suggests that every answer generates a deeper question. If so, then the future may not make this ancient book obsolete. It may make it more relevant than ever. The Great Experiment of Ecclesiastes continues because the question that drove the Preacher’s search still lives within us. 

Sharon: Ecclesiastes is a very important chapter in the Bible that we’ve probably all read but never pondered at the level you’re challenging us to think about. I don’t think I’m ready to comment very much yet, but I do want to say that I’m really looking forward to this series because these are the existential questions that I think each of us wakes up to every single day asking: What is the purpose? Why am I here? Does any of this make any sense at all?

When I look at the world around us, and especially at the massive amount of human suffering that I live among, those questions become more and more relevant. So I look forward to the follow-up and to continuing this exploration of these really deep and complex questions.

C-J: This is why I believe in reincarnation. In the Bible, when the Sadducees and Pharisees were debating life after death, Jesus said, “In my Father’s house are many mansions.” So I don’t struggle with the concept of reincarnation in relation to our place and time, and to being both a student and a teacher simultaneously.

I think all Solomon is doing is what humanity has always done: reflecting on what we observe. As we age, we see what we have access to—or what we lack—in a different way. There has to be more than this. It can’t all be this finite. There has to be great value in this energy, this space and time, and this purpose and intention that I cannot even begin to comprehend.

For me, my relationship with God is consciousness. I am finite, but what we call intuition—or the Holy Spirit operating in our lives—is something beyond us. Solomon simply looked back across the broad spectrum of his life and said, “It all went so quickly. I was part of it. Look what I built. Look what I left.” But in the end, it all crumbles into sand. People die. You hope for the best, and you’re disappointed.

If we look at life that way, then yes, it is finite. I came, I went, I saw, I conquered. But many cultures, particularly Hinduism, see reincarnation differently. The purpose is to evolve into a state of consciousness reunited with the Divine—not merely in spirit, not merely in consciousness, but in the fullness of being.

How does a mother know something is wrong with her child when she’s nowhere near? Is that God active? It has no shape. It has no form. Yet it possesses absolute knowing and trust. It cannot be explained because we live within the finite.

So, for me, these passages are warnings to seek a higher consciousness—to seek something we receive only when we become quiet, when we empty ourselves of ourselves and become open to the spiritual realm. That is prayer.

We often think prayer is asking God for things, or reminding Him of His promises. But when we empty ourselves before God, it becomes an entirely different experience. Then it is God activating something within us. When that has happened to me, I haven’t had a single thought of my own. I’ve simply been overwhelmed—humbled, crying, deeply grateful—because I know there is something on the other side far greater than me.

Everything here bears witness to that purpose, that intention. God is growing me. I’ve had only seventy-four years, and there is still so much I don’t understand and so much I haven’t done. But when I look at my life spiritually, I can only say, “Look what God has done.” Every person He has placed in my life, every event, every choice—there are no mistakes in God. He is always inviting us not merely to climb the mountain in this finite world, but to join Him in spirit.

It’s an amazing thing. I don’t get caught up in right and wrong or “I shouldn’t have done that.” That’s unproductive. I don’t think that’s really the goal.

Anonymous: I would appreciate it if you would concentrate with me on Ecclesiastes 1:13. I’ve spent a long time trying to understand it. It says: “I applied my heart to seek and search out by wisdom concerning all that is done under heaven. This grievous occupation has God given to the children of men to be exercised therewith.” Other translations call it “this miserable task,” or say that God has given it to us “to keep us occupied,” “to exercise us,” or “to humble us.”

So why would God do this? What is the wisdom here? Has He given humanity this burden for our entire lives? Is there an end to it? Is it for a season, for a reason, for our benefit? Or is this simply the permanent human condition?

David: It does seem to be something we’re born with. Some Eastern religions—certainly Daoism—would accept the premise that we’re all born with this burden of trying to figure out what life is about. But Daoism says the answer is simply to let go. Don’t worry about it. Accept that there must be a point to life, but understand that you’ll only bash your head against the rocks if you insist on discovering it intellectually. Instead, just accept life as it is and flow with it.

The eastern sage’s answer to Ecclesiastes’ problem is quite different from much of Christianity, which often seems built around the feeling that we’re somehow guilty because we don’t understand the point of life. Perhaps, we think, if Adam and Eve had never fallen, we’d have understood. But back to Eden, Adam and Eve weren’t asking about the meaning of life. It never occurred to them until the serpent suggested there might be hidden knowledge that they lacked. That awakened the fatal curiosity. It’s a wonderful question, Anon. It’s fundamental to spirituality itself. To me, the answer is: don’t worry about it. Don’t do what Ecclesiastes did.

Sharon mentioned that she’d been active in church for many years without spending much time thinking deeply about Ecclesiastes. I wonder if that’s generally true. Is Ecclesiastes relatively neglected compared with other books of the Bible? And if so, why?

C-J: I really believe it is about seeing God in all things, not about what you have done or about the finite. God does everything with intention and purpose. We are merely instruments. When storms come, they are seasonal. They take what appears to be dead soil and cause it to produce fruit. When I look at my own life, I don’t simply look outward and ask what went wrong. I ask, “What did I need to learn? Why did I fall? What was lacking in me? What did I miss? What did I fail to hear?”

I don’t believe God wastes our time, or that life is simply one and done. When we begin to see God in all things, there is awe. There is a pause. No matter how reckless others may be, how poor their judgment, or how limited their opportunities, it does not mean that God loves one person more than another.

God is saying, “See Me in all things. You are an instrument in My hand. To whom much is given, much is required”—both through what we call good and through what we call bad.

“Take up your mat and walk.” To me, that man’s mat represented PTSD. It represented the lie he had believed—that he had no agency in his own life. He did not understand the power and authority of God, or the power and authority God had placed within him. “Who, me? Are You talking to me? If I simply get up, I will walk? Sir, I have lain here for thirty-eight years. Here are all the reasons I cannot do it.”

God is always saying, “See Me in all things. None of this is wasted. Everything has purpose and meaning in God. Everything has agency in God. Everything has power and authority in God.”

The problem is that we see only the finite. God says, “That is because you are not listening. You are seeing only through the eyes of humanity. I am asking you to see in the spiritual realm. Walk in the spiritual realm, and nothing will be denied you, because My presence and My Spirit are within you. My purpose will go forth as I intended from the foundation of the universe.”

It is not about us. It is about seeing God in all things.

Don: I wonder whether Solomon’s worldview can be understood as a worldview without grace. If we introduce the element of grace as we have understood it and discussed it extensively in this class, perhaps some of the despair that is so easily seen in this passage takes on a different appearance.

David, I would be interested in your sharing with the class the epiphany you’ve had during your study of Ecclesiastes. You’ve shared some things with me that I think are quite profound. Has Ecclesiastes changed your thinking about spirituality and the things of the spirit more generally?

David: It certainly has. Of course, I don’t want to spill the beans about everything I’m going to say in the coming weeks, but I very much take your point about grace. Grace does seem to be missing from Ecclesiastes—the recognition that grace is, in fact, the solution to the problem.

Again, that resembles the Daoist response. Accept that there is a power, a force, a Way. Recognize that grace is present and be thankful for it. Once you do that, you no longer need to worry about the ultimate point of everything. You let God worry about that. There is no need for you to do so.

Reinhard: I believe this book was written long before Jesus came and long before the epistles were written. The knowledge of God at that time seems limited to me. The revelation of God’s love is not as palpable or as deeply felt as it is in the New Testament.

The first chapter speaks of meaninglessness or vanity—of life, labor, and everything we do. I think that is written largely from a secular or human standpoint. As Don mentioned, grace is not prominent. At the end of the book, Solomon says to remember God while you are young, to fear God, and to remember that we will face judgment. So there is at least a slight suggestion of something beyond this life.

Nevertheless, the emphasis of Ecclesiastes is on our finite life on earth—what we do and what becomes of it. Solomon may have written this toward the end of his life, when death was approaching. He looked back upon his experiences and concluded that, no matter how much wealth or wisdom he had amassed, it ultimately meant very little.

But life is more than that. When we look at Jesus and at the writings of Paul, we see that life does not end with this world. There is hope beyond it. The generations come and go, as Solomon says, and that is true. Human life on earth comes and goes. But what we do during that life is important.

For Christians, who believe in hope and in life beyond this world, the description of everything as vanity or meaninglessness seems incomplete. God wants us to do good in this life—to share the gospel and the message of salvation. We look forward to the Second Coming, whether or not we personally live to experience it. Jesus said that life is more than food and the body more than clothing. Life itself is precious in God’s sight. He created us in His own image. The reality is that we must work and labor, and that we come and go. But God’s love is more important than all of that. Sharing that love and holding onto hope in the life to come are more important than whatever we experience during our present life.

That is one thing we can bring into our discussion of Ecclesiastes. I’m looking forward to the coming weeks and to seeing where it takes us.

David: I’ll give you a little sneak preview of something we will discuss. At the end of Ecclesiastes, the Preacher concludes, “Fear God.” The Preacher says, “Fear God,” while Jesus says, “Love God.” Do you detect a difference between those two approaches? Are we perhaps talking about different understandings of God?

C-J: No. For me, it is exactly what I have been saying. Are we going to land on the finite, or are we going to recognize the intention of God’s purpose? We are so caught up in the finite. To me, in many ways, this life is an illusion. But let us call it a classroom. Did you show up on time? Did you do your assignment? What was the quality of your work? What did you learn from it? Did you then help other people understand what you had experienced and learned?

We have an obligation as ambassadors to share that understanding. I am not living merely in order to go to heaven. I am living to complete my mission, so that when I finally see the fruit of my labor, I will understand what God was accomplishing through me.

We meet people throughout our lives and later say, “Oh yes, I remember that person,” but we often have no idea what impact we had. When I have done something wrong, it stings my heart. If it wounded me, I can only imagine what it did to the other person—especially if that person was looking at me as a witness and asking, “Who do you say you are? What do you claim to believe? How do you demonstrate it?”

Wisdom comes from God. It is not merely learning that something hot will burn me and cause harm. Wisdom is the ability to teach people a higher order of spiritual thinking.

I do not apologize for seeking a level of awareness and relationship with God that goes beyond the written word. We see ourselves in the Bible because it is a record of humanity. Moses saw the burning bush physically, but his relationship with God was transformed by what he could not see—by the authority of God meeting him face to face.

I think that is the task and the goal. The question is not simply, “Why do I suffer? Why am I here? Why can’t I get this right? Why is the world so wild and crazy?” The question is, “What is my part in it? How am I a reflection of God?”

I cannot remain preoccupied with the scars. What was the mission? Get up.

Anonymous: David referred to the statement, “For in much wisdom is much grief: and he that increaseth knowledge increaseth sorrow.” (Ecclesiastes 1:18) I want to understand that verse in light of the command to fear God. According to the Bible, the fear of God is the beginning of wisdom, and knowledge of the Holy One is understanding. I believe that is what Proverbs says.

So what kind of wisdom is Solomon talking about here? Is he saying that the wisdom associated with fearing God and understanding the Most High produces sorrow and grief? Or is he talking about a different kind of wisdom—the wisdom of the world?

C-J: No, no. My greatest fear is to be absent from the presence of God—to find myself in a darkness that has no dimension I can tangibly perceive, but in which I feel an emptiness.

“Lord, where are You? What have I done to separate myself from You?”

God does not separate Himself from me. I may feel unworthy, or I may not even recognize that I have sinned. Perhaps I have fallen into the idolatry of being more concerned about myself than about the humanity among whom God has placed me. Perhaps I have become absorbed in my ego, my pride, and my accomplishments instead of saying, “By the grace of God, this has happened. God has given me access and opportunity. May it be used for good, so that it bears witness to what God has allowed me to do for the benefit of others.”

But pride can enter. Human accolades can enter.

My greatest fear is to be absent from God’s presence. That is what I fear. I do not fear God Himself. I enter His presence with confidence, joy, gladness, humility, and gratitude. If God seems absent, it is because I have left Him, not because He has left me.

Anonymous: Of course, we don’t mean fear in the sense you’re describing, Connie. I’m sorry. We don’t mean being afraid of God. To fear God means to honor Him and do His will. That is the fear of God, and according to the Bible, that is the beginning of wisdom. Please correct me if I am mistaken.

C-J: That is what the text says. But would you ever be afraid to approach a parent whom you knew loved you? I was afraid to walk into a room where my father was present unless he had called for me. I feared my father because I knew how quickly his mood could change.

Anonymous: Yes, but that is not the kind of fear we mean.

C-J: But that is what we imagine when we hear the word fear. God repeatedly says, “Come to Me as children. Do not be afraid. Let us talk about this.” I think the language of fear was shaped by the world in which these texts were written and by the fire-and-brimstone understanding that developed around them. But in my relationship with God, there is no fire and brimstone.

David: I think the word “fear” may be leading us astray. But Anon has put her finger on something important, and she is forcing me to reveal a little of the epiphany Don asked me to discuss. Throughout Ecclesiastes, the Preacher talks about life “under the sun.” When he speaks about wisdom under the sun, he is really talking about human sagacity—cleverness, common sense, intelligence, and practical judgment. He is not talking about ultimate wisdom. He speaks of ultimate wisdom only at the very end, when he says, “Fear God.” That is a different kind of wisdom.

I will have much more to say about this because, as Don hinted, this is the epiphany—the central thing I have learned from Ecclesiastes. There is intelligence, and there is wisdom, and there is a profound difference between them. Anon has identified the distinction very well. She seems to know where I am going.

I’m still interested in the question of how often Ecclesiastes is discussed in an Adventist church. How often do you hear a preacher refer to it?

Reinhard: Never. Never.

David: Why not?

Anonymous: It is beyond our understanding. We cannot wrap our minds around it.

C-J: No, it’s a hot potato.

David: Don, why did you ask me to speak about it? I’m curious.

Don: Because I had an epiphany of my own. I thought you would understand the philosophical direction Solomon takes while also bringing out the spiritual dimension. What we see in Ecclesiastes is a worldview based on human performance. Whether it is wealth, women, pleasure, or accomplishment, everything is performance-based. That is a worldview in which we commonly find ourselves and toward which, frankly, we naturally gravitate.

At its deepest level, I think Ecclesiastes is a call to grace. Once we understand grace, some of the questions Solomon raises—which initially seem impenetrable—either disappear or cease to carry the meaning we had assigned to them. I agree with Anon that we hear very few sermons or studies from Ecclesiastes. But it seemed to me that this subject was in your wheelhouse, David.

David: I’m grateful that you asked me. I’ve learned a tremendous amount from it, and you’ll be hearing more about that in the coming weeks.

Reinhard: I also believe that, if we compare Solomon’s writing in Proverbs with Ecclesiastes, we see an important difference. In Proverbs, Solomon highly esteems wisdom. He says that the fear of God is the beginning of wisdom. But in Ecclesiastes, especially in chapter two, he says that wisdom and folly are both meaningless. I think he is speaking there about the limited span of life on this earth. He is not discussing resurrection or life after death. We have to understand the perspective from which Solomon is writing.

He had wisdom, wealth, and everything else, but he was looking at what all of it amounted to within this earthly life. From that standpoint, it seemed vain. Still, I think we are meant to do something while we are alive. At the end, he says to fear God and remember that judgment is coming, but he does not explore that in detail. He does not elaborate on life after death. His focus remains on what happens in this world and on the apparent vanity of everything we do here.

David: I think you’re absolutely right, Reinhard. The phrase “under the sun” is crucial. Solomon is talking about life on earth throughout almost the entire book. Then, right at the end, there is this explosive statement: “Fear God, and keep His commandments.” It is so different from everything that precedes it that many theologians believe someone else added it later.

I’m not convinced. If Solomon was as intelligent as tradition makes him out to be, he could very well have written it himself. The abruptness may be deliberate. He spends the entire book showing us that life on earth is ultimately not what existence is about.

That brings us back to eternity in the human heart. We will be discussing all of this in the coming weeks, but I think your reading is exactly right.

C-J: What if grace is grace within this dimension? Perhaps it is a window that opens when we receive the baptism of the Holy Spirit and acknowledge this incarnate identity. That is grace.

But grace itself cannot be touched or formulated. It has no shape or form. It is more than an idea. It is energy. It is active. So yes, let grace be acknowledged, and let it abound, so that we can extend to others what we ourselves have received. But grace is not transactional. It is always available. The question is whether we will receive it.

We will fall. We will fail to complete our mission at the level for which we were intended. But grace remains present. We sometimes act as though grace were a privilege—something one person receives and another does not. But it is available to anyone, at any point in time. Wisdom is the recognition of how we missed it. It is that sense of awe and wonder without limit or exception. No matter how many times you fall, God says, “I am present.” No matter how much you acquire, it was not given because you are exceptional. It was given because God loves you.

Grace is not, “You give Me this, and I give you that.” Why do we turn everything into a transaction? That is our human flaw. Why must we build temples? Why must we build machines and imagine that we possess authority over them because we can pull the plug? God does not pull the plug.

It hurts me when people think that way. Perhaps that is why Ecclesiastes is such a hot potato. We know the phrase “vanity of vanities,” but without the grace of God, we are not transformed. Our eyes cannot be opened. We cannot engage fully with God’s purpose because we remain trapped in finite pride, idolatry, and vanity. But God says grace is always there. Always.

David: Just to give you a preview, next week we are returning to Ecclesiastes chapter 3 and the poem about there being a time for everything. We will not approach it as the comforting sentiment familiar from the popular song. We will read it as the Preacher’s unflinching description of life under the sun—an honest inventory of existence that includes death, hatred, and war. He is reporting these realities, not endorsing them.

Against the constant fact of mortality—which levels the wise and the foolish alike—the claim that God has set eternity in the human heart stands out. Human beings uniquely refuse to accept their limits. I don’t think animals do this. We dream of permanence, justice, and meaning.

Next week we will contrast the Preacher with Jesus. The Preacher describes life as it is. Jesus reveals what it can become. He offers Himself as the door between time and eternity, with grace as the mechanism that breaks the cycles of retaliation and allows the kingdom to begin quietly in the present.

We will close by considering modern technology—life extension, artificial intelligence, brain-computer interfaces, and related developments. They may reduce suffering and even extend life, but, to paraphrase the poem, there may be a technology for everything, yet no technology can open that door.

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