Vanity [Proper 13C - Ecclesiastes 1:2, 12-14; 2:18-23]

 The Rev. Jeremiah Williamson

Ecclesiastes 1:2, 12-14; 2:18-23

 

Vanity

 

There was a bowl on the table of the family room.  In it were the remnants of an oatmeal breakfast – unfortunately, from the day before.  No one but the child who carried it out of the dining room and down the stairs knew it was there – until it was found – dried out and adhered in only the way old oatmeal can adhere.  My wife stood over the sink painstakingly dislocating stubborn oats from the vessel.  With much effort and time, the bowl was washed and dried and returned to the cupboard – just in time for it to once again be removed and filled and dirtied.  The bowl will be washed and dried and returned to the cupboard hundreds of times – over and over again, until the day it is dropped.  That one simple bowl will require hours of labor, hours of human life, to remain in circulation.

 

Each shirt: worn, washed, dried, folded, unfolded, worn, washed, dried, folded, unfolded, worn.  A beautiful dinner, prepared in an hour; devoured in 15 minutes.  Snow shoveled and then the sun comes out.  Dust to dust some more.  “So I turned and gave my heart up to despair concerning all the toil of my labors under the sun…”  All is vanity.  We are Sisyphus pushing the boulder, not to reach the apex but so the stone doesn’t push us back down the hill.  Things happen but nothing changes. 

 

The book of Ecclesiastes isn’t read in church very often.  In fact, it shows up, on a Sunday morning, just once every six years.  The next time you hear this one lectionary appointed passage from the book it will be the summer of 2028.  And you will have washed your red bowl approximately 500 times – unless, that is, it slips from your grip as you dry it.

 

It is not terribly surprising that Ecclesiastes seldom finds its way into Sunday morning worship.  It can feel too bleak.  Also it can feel too honest, like it articulates the very thoughts we try not to think: that all is vanity. 

 

And that is of course the point of the book: to say something chillingly true about this mortal life.  The author, like many sages of the ancient wisdom tradition, wandered the earth, searching for wisdom, and for meaning.  He collected observations and experiences, as many as he possibly could.  He claims to have witnessed all the deeds that are done under the sun; he’s seen it all.  He claims, in the verses that open chapter two, the verses omitted from our reading, that he not only saw but did.  He bought stuff.  He drank fine wine.  He planted beautiful gardens that would bring fame and cement his legacy.  He accumulated treasures.  He listened to good music.  He had a lot of sex.  He became an international celebrity.  He did it all.  But at the end of his journey, as his reflections become this canonical text, he discovers that all his efforts, valiant or debauched as they were, were meaningless, no more than a chasing after wind. 

 

The gardens eventually wither or succumb to weeds.  The wine wears off.  The music fades.  The treasures, as Jesus reminds us in Matthew’s Gospel, are destroyed by moth and decay or are carried away by thieves who break in and steal.  Or, perhaps worse, as Jesus warns us in today’s Gospel passage from Luke, we die and leave all our hard-earned treasures behind. 

 

That the writer of Ecclesiastes assessment is more accurate than we care to admit can be a depressing thought.  But if we are honest, there is truth in everything the sage says.  Wealth and status are handed down, at times, to foolish heirs.  The wise are, at times, left penniless; the lazy and ignorant, at times, stumble into great success.  Some days are full of pain; work can be a vexation; minds do race in the cozy comforts of bed.  Time does erase stories and erode progress and stored up treasure. 

 

The sage’s stark telling, one preserved in the Bible, is compelling, if not unsettling.  There is a part of us, or at least of me, that fears he is right – if not every day, at least on some days.  I suspect I’m not alone; I suspect many of us grapple with the meaning of life, the meaning of these fleeting years we spend on this very old planet, this very old planet spinning around in a vast universe.  Being so small and so temporary and so aware can set one’s mind spinning. What if I don’t make a difference?  What if my work doesn’t matter?  What if this broken world cannot be fixed?  What if all is vanity?  Then what is the point? 

 

And if these questions do visit you on occasion, you are in good company.  This author, the one who wrote Ecclesiastes, is considered exceptionally wise.  And he struggled with the same vexing questions. 

 

It is surprising that our lectionary passage today ends with verse twenty-three – although my son Isaiah, who has the honor of reading this passage during the 10:30 service, thinks it is quite long enough as it is.  And I say that because it is in the verses that immediately follow our passage today that the sage finds his reason, finds meaning.  After making yet another statement about vanity, he writes, “There is nothing better for mortals than to eat and drink, and find enjoyment in their toil. This also, I saw, is from the hand of God; for apart from God who can eat or who can have enjoyment? For to the one who pleases God God gives wisdom and knowledge and joy.”  And so maybe not all is vanity. 

 

Despite claiming that he gave his heart up to despair, it seems our author is not without some hope.  In these final verses of chapter two, he finds something good in this vain world.  Happiness is not found in striving or ambition or accumulation.  The true pleasures of life are there in the simplest of things: eating, drinking, and finding enjoyment in one’s work.  It is as if the sage was happier planting his garden than he was revealing its glory. 

 

And while this is not the most overtly religious book in the Bible, the sage recognizes that the best things in life are free.  They are gifts from God – from an infinitely generous God, from a God who loves us not because of what we do or what we have but because we are. 

 

The author leaves us with this simple plea: to embrace the wonder of each moment.  To find happiness there.  Because life is short and sometimes absurd.  We live in the shadow of death and yet there are simple joys hiding in the most mundane moments of the human experience.  As one who has seen and done it all, the sage wants us to learn from his experience.  He searched far and wide only to discover that life is not a problem to be solved but a divine gift to be cherished.