My son, beware of anything beyond these. Of making many books there is no end, and much study is a weariness of the flesh. (Ecclesiastes 12:12)
My passion for Europe began in university, largely inspired by reading Francis Schaeffer. He was a missionary in Europe and a teacher of worldview, and through his writings, I was deeply moved by his heart for the continent. His reflections on Europe’s spiritual condition sparked something in me—I felt a calling to be there. When I learned of a Christian conference in London, I saw it as the perfect opportunity. But I ran into a problem: young men in Korea couldn’t travel abroad until they’d completed military service. The only exception was if a professor vouched for their return, but mine wouldn’t. Frustrated, I turned to fasting and prayer. After a week, while reading Ecclesiastes, this verse struck me:
I perceived that whatever God does endures forever; nothing can be added to it, nor anything taken from it. God has done it, so that people fear before him. (Ecclesiastes 3:14)
I realized God was in control of my situation—and that I couldn’t change it. I accepted it. The next year, I completed my military service and eventually made it to London. Through that experience, I discovered how powerful Ecclesiastes is. If a classic is a book that still speaks powerfully today, then Ecclesiastes is surely a classic.
Ecclesiastes says everything is vanity or meaningless. But that’s not what most Christians expect the Bible to say. So, instead of reading it as it is, they try to turn the message of the book into something acceptable and tame. For example, many Christians think the message of Ecclesiastes is that life is meaningless without God. But it’s hard to argue that based on the text. It says in verse 1 of chapter 1 that it is written by “the Preacher, the son of David, king in Jerusalem.” How can it be a story of someone who lived without God? In a similar vein, Jerome wrote that this book shows the meaninglessness of life in the world. But, Ecclesiastes doesn’t say, “Life in the world is meaningless, but life in the church is meaningful.” It says, “Enjoy life with the wife whom you love, all the days of your vain life that he has given you under the sun, because that is your portion in life…” (Ecclesiastes 9:9) God is not merely the remedy to life’s vanity—He is the one who gives us this life. Some say the Preacher was just depressed. But reducing his words to a mental health issue strips the book of its meaning. He isn’t just expressing personal sadness—he’s describing the human condition.
Wisdom, Pleasure, Work, and Wealth
To show that everything is vanity, the Preacher carefully examines each thing people usually expect to bring meaning to life.
Many people admire wisdom and believe it can save them from life’s problems. Especially those who have done well in school may think, “If I get more education and become wiser, then my problems will disappear.” But that’s not what the Preacher found.
I said in my heart, “I have acquired great wisdom, surpassing all who were over Jerusalem before me, and my heart has had great experience of wisdom and knowledge.” And I applied my heart to know wisdom and to know madness and folly. I perceived that this also is but a striving after wind. For in much wisdom is much vexation, and he who increases knowledge increases sorrow. (Ecclesiastes 1:16–18)
As you gain knowledge, life often becomes more complicated. Wisdom doesn’t always lead to better outcomes—sometimes it makes things worse. And all that reading and studying takes significant time and effort, with no guarantee of satisfaction.
Next, the Preacher examines pleasure. Pleasure is a natural signal from our bodies. We’re wired to feel good when we do things that help us survive or reproduce. That’s why people chase pleasure—it doesn’t need to be taught. Some devote their whole lives to it: food, music, sex, drugs, entertainment. And that’s what the Preacher did, too.
I said in my heart, “Come now, I will test you with pleasure; enjoy yourself.” But behold, this also was vanity. I said of laughter, “It is mad,” and of pleasure, “What use is it?” (Ecclesiastes 2:1–2)
Pleasure may feel good in the moment, but it doesn’t lead to anything lasting. You simply enjoy it—and then it’s gone. That fleeting quality often leaves people feeling empty inside.
People also look for meaning in work. They believe that building a successful business or career will make their lives worthwhile. But even if they succeed, they can’t control what happens afterward. That’s what the Preacher recognized.
I hated all my toil in which I toil under the sun, seeing that I must leave it to the man who will come after me, and who knows whether he will be wise or a fool? Yet he will be master of all for which I toiled and used my wisdom under the sun. This also is vanity. So I turned about and gave my heart up to despair over all the toil of my labors under the sun, because sometimes a person who has toiled with wisdom and knowledge and skill must leave everything to be enjoyed by someone who did not toil for it. This also is vanity and a great evil. (Ecclesiastes 2:18–21)
Consider the Medici family. They were one of the most powerful families in Europe. From Florence, their influence extended across borders through popes they produced and royal marriages that placed Medici women on foreign thrones. They funded the Renaissance, supporting artists like Michelangelo, Leonardo da Vinci, and Botticelli. Yet their dynasty ended. The last male Medici Grand Duke, Gian Gastone, died without an heir in 1737. Despite their accomplishments, they couldn’t control what their descendants would do. Even great success at work can’t guarantee a lasting legacy.
Finally, the Preacher considers wealth. Most people believe money solves all problems and gives life meaning. But again, the Preacher’s experience says otherwise:
He who loves money will not be satisfied with money, nor he who loves wealth with his income; this also is vanity. When goods increase, they increase who eat them, and what advantage has their owner but to see them with his eyes? Sweet is the sleep of a laborer, whether he eats little or much, but the full stomach of the rich will not let him sleep. (Ecclesiastes 5:10–12)
Sociologist Max Weber once described the spirit of capitalism as the endless pursuit of wealth. That mindset defines much of modern life. People don’t just want to be rich—they want infinite wealth. But that’s an impossible goal. The more they gain, the more they desire. And with increased wealth comes increased consumption (“When goods increase, they increase who eat them,” as the Preacher observed). Moreover, more money often brings more worries. The rich may have full stomachs, but they also have restless nights. They must manage assets, protect their status, and make constant decisions. In the end, what’s the point of accumulating wealth? According to Ecclesiastes, even money is vanity.
The Slavemaster
Even though the message of meaninglessness in Ecclesiastes is hard to accept, it can have a surprisingly liberating effect. Many of us are driven by an inner slavemaster—an internal voice that constantly pushes us to work harder, to achieve more, to find meaning at all costs. But when we accept the message of Ecclesiastes, that slavemaster loses its power. We are set free.
Take education, for example. In Korea, education is held in very high regard. It’s not just about doing well in school yourself—you want your children to attend a prestigious university. So, from early childhood, life becomes a long and grueling struggle for academic achievement. In high school, students wake up early, attend school all day, then go to cram school for several more hours. They return home late at night, exhausted, only to repeat the same cycle the next day. There’s little time for dating, hobbies, or even spending time with friends. For many Korean teenagers, high school isn’t a time of youthful exploration—it’s a battlefield.
But what is all this for? Even those who make it into top universities are not guaranteed a fulfilling or successful life. Many who give up everything to study find themselves feeling empty once they get there. If they knew that even this pursuit is vanity, they might not sacrifice so much of their youth—or force their children to do the same.
Now, consider money. I’ve been to the United States many times, and each time, I feel that if I lived there, I would feel pressured to work very hard to earn money. Poverty and wealth exist everywhere, but in the U.S., it often seems like being poor is treated as a personal failure. This mindset is only possible because people widely believe it’s fair to treat the poor that way—as if poverty is always a result of laziness or irresponsibility. For example, when I took the subway in New York, I felt it was neither safe nor comfortable. In such a situation, it’s understandable that everyone feels the need to make more money—just to escape poverty and gain some security. Americans work extremely hard, and perhaps that’s one reason why the U.S. is such a wealthy nation. But as the Preacher says, money, too, is vanity. If money is vanity, then there is no point slaving away to accumulate money.
A Dent in the Universe
Smart people often recognize that simply making money is not enough. They seek to use their wealth to accomplish something meaningful. Consider Steve Jobs. He famously said he wanted to “make a dent in the universe.” His goal wasn’t just to accumulate riches—it was to leave an impact on the world, to give his life a sense of significance. And in many ways, he succeeded. As a young man, Jobs co-founded Apple Computer with his friend Steve Wozniak. Later, he was ousted from the very company he helped build. But when Apple began to falter, Jobs returned and led a stunning turnaround. Under his leadership, Apple released revolutionary products like the iMac, iPod, and Mac OS X. Then in 2007, he introduced the iPhone—a device that would redefine modern life. Thanks to the iPhone, Apple became the most valuable company in the world.
Today, it’s considered normal to be constantly connected to the internet, but that was not the case before the iPhone. This single device transformed how people communicate, travel, consume media, and interact with the world. In terms of influence on daily life, few individuals in recent history have had more impact than Steve Jobs. Yet, despite all his achievements, Jobs died of cancer at the relatively young age of 56. And the iPhone, the product that best represents his vision, is a mixed blessing. On the one hand, it has made life more convenient and connected. On the other hand, it has introduced new challenges. Anyone raising children knows how quickly kids become attached to phones—and how hard it is to regulate their use afterward. Many adults try to limit their screen time, but it isn’t easy. What was meant as a gift to humanity has also become a source of distraction, addiction, and stress. Jobs’s legacy, while extraordinary, is not without its complications.
Another example of a businessman trying to make a dent in the universe is Bill Gates. For a long time, he was the wealthiest man in the world. After stepping down from Microsoft, he dedicated himself to fighting global poverty. He pledged to give away nearly all his wealth—about $200 billion—to help the world’s poorest populations. His work has led to education, vaccinations, and jobs for millions. His efforts have changed countless lives. Surely, that must be meaningful.
But poverty isn’t only absolute; it’s also relative. Even if absolute poverty is eliminated, some people will always be poorer than their neighbors. And despite all his efforts, many now suspect Gates of using vaccines to control people. His work, intended to help, has become the basis for suspicion and even hatred.
Now consider Elon Musk, currently the wealthiest person in the world. His goal is to make humanity a multi-planetary species. That vision is so central to him that when SpaceX experienced a failed launch, his greatest worry wasn’t financial loss, but that “humanity fails to be a multi-planetary species.”
Let’s imagine that Musk succeeds. People travel to Mars and successfully establish a colony. Eventually, they will send humans to another planet, this time outside our solar system. After millions of years, let’s say humans are living on 5,000 different planets. That would be a monumental achievement—and it would have started with one man’s vision.
But let’s put that into perspective. The observable universe contains an estimated 200 sextillion planets (200,000,000,000,000,000,000,000). Currently, humans inhabit just one—Earth. That’s 1 out of 200 sextillion, or 0.0000000000000000000005%. If we expanded to 5,000 planets, we would still only occupy 0.0000000000000000025% of the universe. In the grand scheme of things, even Elon Musk’s grandest vision would barely make a dent in the universe.
If even the most ambitious project of the wealthiest man in the world amounts to almost nothing on a universal scale, what hope do the rest of us have of being part of something truly meaningful? Ecclesiastes doesn’t deny the value of our efforts—but it puts them in perspective. It reminds us that our deepest obsessions—education, money, legacy, even grand visions—may not deliver the meaning we expect. And in that realization, there’s a kind of freedom. We no longer need to prove ourselves to the universe. Instead, we can live humbly and honestly under the sun.
Deus Ex Machina
At this point, many Christians might ask, “What is he talking about? We already have the meaning of life—it’s doing the will of God.” But that’s not what Ecclesiastes says. Christians have become so accustomed to turning to God as the answer to every problem that they’re often surprised when the Preacher doesn’t do the same. When Christians need money, they pray for financial provision. When they’re sick, they pray for healing. When they feel depressed, they pray for joy. And many times, God answers those prayers. It seems like God becomes the solution to everything. For many believers, God is the ultimate deus ex machina—the divine force who arrives to fix every difficulty.
The term deus ex machina comes from ancient Greek theater. When a plot became too tangled to resolve naturally, a god would literally be lowered onto the stage using a mechanical crane, and with divine power, solve everything. For instance, in Euripides’ Medea, after Medea murders her own children in revenge against her unfaithful husband, she escapes in a chariot sent by the Sun God Helios—an abrupt and miraculous rescue. A modern example appears in The Lord of the Rings: when Frodo and Sam are stranded on a rock surrounded by lava, Gandalf arrives with the Eagles, who swoop in to rescue the hobbits just in time. In both ancient and modern stories, the deus ex machina serves as a convenient way to solve seemingly unsolvable problems.
Likewise, many Christians treat God in this way—as the one who steps in to solve whatever crisis they face. On the surface, that may seem fine. But if God is only our solution, then he becomes our tool, not our Lord. Many Christians think of God primarily as the one who provides happiness. They expect him to deliver good things, but they don’t necessarily live in obedience or devotion to Him. Is that truly what Christianity is about?
Ecclesiastes pushes back against this mindset by presenting a radically different view of God—not as the solution, but sometimes as the source of the challenge. That’s not the version of God most Christians want, but it’s the one the Preacher insists we must reckon with.
Be not rash with your mouth, nor let your heart be hasty to utter a word before God, for God is in heaven and you are on earth. Therefore let your words be few. (Ecclesiastes 5:2)
The belief that we can use God to fix all our problems reflects one of the more troubling aspects of modern Protestantism. In Catholic theology, as Thomas Aquinas wrote, humans can only know what God is not, never fully what he is. God remains mysterious and transcendent. But in much of Protestant thinking, we often speak as though we know everything about God—his thoughts, his plans, his desires. We relate to him as Father, Friend, Savior, Helper, and expect him to respond to our prayers on demand. This brings God down to our level. And if we take that logic a step further, we might say, “We are the masters, and God is our servant.” This mindset is summed up in the popular bumper sticker: “God Is My Co-Pilot.” In that view, we steer the ship, and God helps us when needed.
We also see this dynamic when parents or teachers invoke God’s name to control children—using divine authority to reinforce personal authority. But are we justified in doing that? Do we truly know what God wants in those moments? As Karl Barth said, God is “wholly other.” And in the words of Ecclesiastes, “God is in heaven and you are on earth.” It’s presumptuous—even absurd—for us to use God to legitimize our own desires or positions. Instead, we ought to speak of God with reverence and restraint. Let our words about him be few, and let us approach him with humility, not as a tool to be wielded, but as the sovereign Lord who cannot be reduced to our purposes.
Materialism and the Meaning of Life
The feeling of meaninglessness is something many people experience today, and a major reason for this is the rise of materialism. Since the Renaissance, Western society has gradually shifted from a God-centered worldview to a materialistic one. Today, materialism dominates much of our thinking. It can be appealing—after all, it dismisses spiritual taboos and superstitions—but it has one major flaw: it cannot provide meaning.
Meaning comes from direction. When you’re building toward something, life feels purposeful. But if you build a house only to have it demolished before it’s finished, perhaps to make way for a road, the whole effort feels meaningless. That’s why many communists fell into despair when the Soviet Union collapsed. They had worked hard for the ideal communist world, but with the fall of that dream, all their efforts seemed pointless. In materialism, there is no ultimate direction. The Big Bang happened by chance, and the universe will end without achieving any purpose. Some thinkers, like Henri Bergson, who proposed élan vital—an inner creative drive toward complexity—or Paul Davies, who theorized that the universe produced human consciousness to collapse quantum wave functions, suggest a kind of purposeful evolution. But these views are not typical of materialists. Most materialists believe that the universe came about randomly and will end randomly. If the world has no direction, how can my life have meaning?
Faced with this bleak outlook, some materialists choose to fully accept meaninglessness. They embrace it as our fate. Emil Cioran, the Romanian philosopher, is one such example. But people who reject meaning often seem gloomy, even depressing. It’s hard to be around them. Most of the attractive qualities we see in people come from a quiet belief that life matters. Without that belief, it becomes extremely difficult to be joyful, generous, or hopeful. That’s why many thinkers—even those influenced by materialism—try to find some form of meaning.
Take Friedrich Nietzsche, for instance. Though not a classical materialist, he rejected the supernatural like the materialists. He proposed the idea of eternal return: the notion that everything is repeated forever. If this is true, every action carries eternal significance. Even a sneeze is infinitely meaningful because it happens eternally. In a godless universe, this idea can provide a sense of meaning. However, Czech novelist Milan Kundera saw the problem with Nietzsche’s idea. If everything is repeated forever, then every choice carries overwhelming weight. Every mistake becomes eternal. Life becomes unbearably heavy. On the flip side, if life is lived only once—without repetition—we’re free from that burden. But this also means our actions lack lasting significance. Life becomes unbearably light. That’s the core message of Kundera’s novel, The Unbearable Lightness of Being.
Another approach to finding meaning is to create it for yourself. This is the heart of existentialism. Jean-Paul Sartre famously said, “Existence precedes essence.” In other words, there is no pre-written script for life. We simply exist, and then we define who we are through our choices. This idea is perhaps even more popular now than it was in Sartre’s time. Today, people are encouraged to define their own meaning in life, often through personal goals and experiences. Natasha Bedingfield’s song Unwritten is a good example. She sings, “I am unwritten… I’m undefined… Live your life with arms wide open/Today is where your book begins/The rest is still unwritten.”
One modern version of this is the bucket list. The term gained popularity after the 2007 film The Bucket List by Rob Reiner. In the movie, two terminally ill men escape a hospital ward to complete a list of things they want to do before they die. Since then, creating a bucket list has become a popular way to seek meaning. People aim to check off achievements, like climbing Mount Everest or learning ten languages, before they die. But why are these things meaningful? The list itself carries no inherent meaning. It creates the illusion of purpose. Using the language of Ecclesiastes, even the bucket list is vanity.
“You’re Not the Missionary Type”
Woody Allen offers a compelling case study in the search for meaning—or at least, the struggle to avoid despair. Many of his characters are caught in existential crises. In Stardust Memories, Allen plays Sandy Bates, a middle-aged film director seeking meaning in his life. When he encounters aliens, he asks, “If nothing lasts, why am I bothering to make films or anything for that matter?” They reply, “We enjoy your films, particularly the early funny ones.” It’s a humorous jab at critics who say his newer films are too serious compared to his early comedies like Take the Money and Run or Bananas.
Sandy presses further: “Shouldn’t I stop making movies and do something that counts, like helping blind people or becoming a missionary?” The aliens answer, “You’re not the missionary type—you’d never last. And incidentally, you’re also not Superman. You’re a comedian. You want to do mankind a real service? Tell funnier jokes.” The aliens, ironically, seem more grounded than Sandy. They’re not obsessed with the question of meaning. Sandy, like many modern people, is unable to enjoy life because he’s trapped in the fear that all is vanity.
In Manhattan, another of Allen’s films, the main character Isaac Davis is a 42-year-old television writer questioning the purpose of life. In one scene, he lies on his couch, recording a list of things that make life worth living: “Well, there are certain things I guess that make it worthwhile… Groucho Marx, Willie Mays, the second movement of the Jupiter Symphony, Louis Armstrong’s recording of Potato Head Blues, Swedish movies, Sentimental Education by Flaubert, Marlon Brando, Frank Sinatra, those incredible apples and pears by Cézanne, the crabs at Sam Wo’s… and Tracy’s face.”
This list is impressive and cultured, yet what truly gives him the courage to keep going is love—his love for Tracy. Earlier, he had rejected her because she was too young, but in that moment of clarity, he realizes she’s the one who truly matters to him. In this film, love is portrayed as a form of hope. However, since Tracy leaves him in the end, love is not presented as a magic solution. It’s not the ultimate, all-conquering good of romantic fantasy.
Early in the film, Isaac muses about a story idea: “People in Manhattan who are constantly creating these real, unnecessary, neurotic problems for themselves ’cause it keeps them from dealing with more unsolvable, terrifying problems about the universe.” That line sums up many of Allen’s films—and even many popular sitcoms, like Seinfeld. In one hilarious Seinfeld episode, George Costanza visits a psychiatrist. Instead of discussing his real issues, he becomes fixated on a stuck zipper on his jacket. Even the psychiatrist joins in trying to fix it. These kinds of pseudo-problems are distractions from deeper existential fears. Maybe we watch these shows for the same reason: to avoid confronting the real questions of life.
In Hannah and Her Sisters, Allen plays Mickey, a hypochondriac TV producer who’s told he might have a brain tumor. After learning he’s actually fine, he spirals into an even deeper existential crisis. At one point, he admits, “I just felt that in a Godless universe, I didn’t want to go on living.” He explores religion—he even considers converting to Catholicism, to the horror of his Jewish parents—and reads philosophy, but nothing satisfies.
Eventually, he wonders, “Maybe the poets are right. Maybe love is the only answer.” Like many other Allen characters, he hopes love might redeem his life. But even that doesn’t bring resolution. In a moment of despair, he tries to kill himself, but the gun misfires, shattering a mirror instead. Startled, he runs into the street and ends up in a movie theater that happens to be playing the Marx Brothers’ Duck Soup. As he watches the comedy, he reflects: “I’m watching these people up on the screen… and I started to feel, ‘How can you even think of killing yourself? Isn’t it so stupid? Look at all the people up there on the screen—they’re real funny. And what if the worst is true? What if there is no God, and you only go around once and that’s it? Well, don’t you want to be part of the experience? What the hell, it’s not all a drag.’”
This experience doesn’t provide a perfect answer, but it gives him something to hold onto. A makeshift answer. It’s not deep theology or metaphysical truth—but it’s enough to keep going. And for Woody Allen, that’s the most he could find.
A Man in Search of Meaning
Even though Ecclesiastes opens with the famous words, “Vanity of vanities, says the Preacher, vanity of vanities! All is vanity.” (Ecclesiastes 1:2) and closes with a nearly identical phrase, “Vanity of vanities, says the Preacher; all is vanity.” (Ecclesiastes 12:8), it is not a book of despair. It’s more than just a meditation on meaninglessness. One of the remarkable features of Ecclesiastes is the recurring “Carpe Diem” passages—calls to enjoy life despite its fleeting nature. These passages appear throughout the book (see 2:24–26; 3:12–14; 3:22; 5:18–20; 8:15; 9:7–10; 11:8–10). They aren’t outliers; they’re central to the message of Ecclesiastes. Take this example:
Go, eat your bread with joy, and drink your wine with a merry heart, for God has already approved what you do. Let your garments be always white. Let not oil be lacking on your head. Enjoy life with the wife whom you love, all the days of your vain life that he has given you under the sun, because that is your portion in life and in your toil at which you toil under the sun. Whatever your hand finds to do, do it with your might, for there is no work or thought or knowledge or wisdom in Sheol, to which you are going. (Ecclesiastes 9:7–10)
Here, the Preacher acknowledges that life is fleeting—vain, even—but that doesn’t lead him to despair. Instead, he urges us to receive life as a gift from a generous God. He tells us to enjoy our food and drink with joy, because God has already given his approval. We are invited to live with gratitude and freedom—to dress well, to enjoy love and companionship, and to pursue our work with full effort. Yes, life is short, and yes, death awaits, but those realities don’t rob us of the goodness in each day.
Today, as people live longer, many find themselves worrying about old age instead of enjoying the gift of longevity. In some ways, the elderly can become as dependent on others as newborns. As independent individuals, we naturally resist the idea of relying on others, so we try to prepare—often by saving money for the future. Preparing for old age is probably wise, but the truth is, no one knows what the future holds. Some may enjoy health and peace until the end of their lives. Others, despite all their efforts, may still face hardship. Even well-known figures have not been spared. Stan Lee, the creator of Spiderman, reportedly suffered abuse by those close to him in his final years. Gene Hackman, the renowned actor, developed Alzheimer’s disease. He and his wife had lived together in a remote area, but after her sudden death, he spent a week alone before passing away—a tragic and lonely end. Can any of us truly say, “That will never happen to me”? It’s only natural to feel anxious about old age. But Ecclesiastes offers a different perspective. It doesn’t tell us to worry about what might come. Instead, it reminds us that when God gives us good days, we should enjoy them. When we live in gratitude, we don’t even have time left to be anxious.
Everyone also to whom God has given wealth and possessions and power to enjoy them, and to accept his lot and rejoice in his toil—this is the gift of God. For he will not much remember the days of his life because God keeps him occupied with joy in his heart. (Ecclesiastes 5:19–20)
One of the key verses in Ecclesiastes—and a personal favorite—is this:
In the day of prosperity be joyful, and in the day of adversity consider: God has made the one as well as the other, so that man may not find out anything that will be after him. (Ecclesiastes 7:14)
Many people live with constant anxiety, thinking they must infuse every moment with deep meaning. But Ecclesiastes challenges that. We’re invited to enjoy life when we can. If you’re not seriously ill, if you have what you need, if your country is at peace—then enjoy those blessings! Imagine you’ve just had a delicious meal. You should savor it with gratitude. There are countless people who can’t enjoy such a simple pleasure—perhaps due to illness, financial struggle, or poor circumstances. Yet instead of enjoying what we have, we often worry. We ask, “What if I don’t get meals like this when I’m older?” Or worse, “Why are others suffering while I have this?”
While these are understandable questions, they can become traps that steal our ability to appreciate the moment. We’re trained to ask thoughtful questions, but sometimes our introspection keeps us from enjoying life. Ecclesiastes suggests we only face difficult realities when they arrive. Here, as Jacques Ellul suggests, we see the connection between Ecclesiastes and the Sermon on the Mount, which says, “Therefore do not be anxious about tomorrow, for tomorrow will be anxious for itself. Sufficient for the day is its own trouble.” (Matthew 6:34) When difficult times come, we’re called to humility and surrender, to acknowledge that we do not fully understand what God is doing.
Youth with a Remembrance
Ecclesiastes ends with a heartfelt message to the young:
Remember also your Creator in the days of your youth, before the evil days come and the years draw near of which you will say, “I have no pleasure in them.” (Ecclesiastes 12:1)
This is perhaps the heart of the book’s message. Ecclesiastes doesn’t say, “Life is meaningless, so give up.” Rather, it says, “In this fleeting life, the best thing you can do is remember your Creator—especially while you’re still young.” Why youth? Because youth is the season God often uses to draw us to himself. Most people who become Christians do so while they are young. Very few make that decision after 40. If you’re going to encounter the Creator, chances are it will happen in your youth.
But many try to delay meeting God. They want to live freely in their youth, and only accept God on their deathbed. Augustine famously prayed in his youth, “Lord, make me chaste—but not yet!” He desired purity, but didn’t want to give up the pleasures of sin. But the longer we delay, the harder it becomes to cultivate a real relationship with God.
Youth is the time when your heart is shaped. The habits and affections you develop then tend to stay with you. For instance, I still love the worship songs from my teenage years. They may not be as musically refined as modern songs, but they move my heart in a way nothing else does. Those songs helped form my faith, and my soul remembers them. If you meet God too late in life, you may struggle to worship from the depths of your heart, because you lack the memories from your youth.
Life inevitably leads to aging and death. And the best way to confront this reality is to know God while you are young. The Preacher paints a vivid picture of aging:
before the sun and the light and the moon and the stars are darkened and the clouds return after the rain, in the day when the keepers of the house tremble, and the strong men are bent, and the grinders cease because they are few, and those who look through the windows are dimmed, and the doors on the street are shut—when the sound of the grinding is low, and one rises up at the sound of a bird, and all the daughters of song are brought low— they are afraid also of what is high, and terrors are in the way; the almond tree blossoms, the grasshopper drags itself along, and desire fails, because man is going to his eternal home, and the mourners go about the streets— before the silver cord is snapped, or the golden bowl is broken, or the pitcher is shattered at the fountain, or the wheel broken at the cistern, and the dust returns to the earth as it was, and the spirit returns to God who gave it. Vanity of vanities, says the Preacher; all is vanity. (Ecclesiastes 12:2–8)
This poetic passage describes the gradual breakdown of the human body in old age. The imagery is striking:
“The sun and the light and the moon and the stars are darkened” suggests the loss of clarity and vitality.
“The keepers of the house tremble, and the strong men are bent” refers to trembling hands and weakened legs.
“The grinders cease because they are few” implies tooth loss.
“Those who look through the windows grow dim” refers to failing eyesight.
“The doors on the street are shut… the sound of the grinding is low” suggests hearing loss and social isolation.
“One rises up at the sound of a bird” hints at light, disturbed sleep.
“All the daughters of song are brought low” reflects a diminishing ability to enjoy music and life’s pleasures.
“The almond tree blossoms” likely symbolizes hair turning white.
“The grasshopper drags itself along” illustrates the loss of physical agility.
Eventually, “man is going to his eternal home,” and “the dust returns to the earth as it was, and the spirit returns to God who gave it.” Death, the final end, renders all worldly achievements meaningless. In the face of death, everything is truly vanity.
But while we are young, death feels distant. That’s why youth is a time of freedom—a freedom not to waste, but to use in remembering and serving our Creator. In this brief and fleeting life under the sun, that is the best thing we can do.