Lent 1
February 18, 2024
I said to myself, “Come now, I
will make a test of pleasure; enjoy yourself.” But again, this also was
vanity. I said of laughter, “It is mad,” and of pleasure, “What use is
it?” I searched with my mind how to cheer my body with wine—my mind still
guiding me with wisdom—and how to lay hold on folly, until I might see what was
good for mortals to do under heaven during the few days of their life. I
made great works; I built houses and planted vineyards for myself; I made
myself gardens and parks, and planted in them all kinds of fruit trees. I
made myself pools from which to water the forest of growing trees. I
bought male and female slaves, and had slaves who were born in my house; I also
had great possessions of herds and flocks, more than any who had been before me
in Jerusalem. I also gathered for myself silver and gold and the treasure
of kings and of the provinces; I got singers, both men and women, and delights
of the flesh, and many concubines.
So I became great and surpassed
all who were before me in Jerusalem; also my wisdom remained with
me. Whatever my eyes desired I did not keep from them; I kept my heart
from no pleasure, for my heart found pleasure in all my toil, and this was my
reward for all my toil. Then I considered all that my hands had done and
the toil I had spent in doing it, and again, all was vanity and a chasing after
wind, and there was nothing to be gained under the sun.
So I turned to consider wisdom
and madness and folly; for what can the one do who comes after the king? Only
what has already been done. Then I saw that wisdom excels folly as light
excels darkness. The wise have eyes in their head, but fools walk in
darkness. Yet I perceived that the same fate befalls all of them. Then I
said to myself, “What happens to the fool will happen to me also; why then have
I been so very wise?” And I said to myself that this also is vanity. For
there is no enduring remembrance of the wise or of fools, seeing that in the days
to come all will have been long forgotten. How can the wise die just like
fools?
So I hated life, because what is
done under the sun was grievous to me; for all is vanity and a chasing after
wind.
Every so often we hear a story of somebody who had it all: money, big houses, closets full of clothing, a kitchen full of premium appliances, exclusive memberships in clubs, sports cars, wide circles of influence and power, countless friends, and admirers. They have it all – and it doesn’t turn out very well.
Those stories, as told in books, television, or the news, can be understood as morality plays. They teach us life lessons, especially for those of us who will never have what that person has. Somebody ascends like the mythical figure Icarus, flying into the sky on homemade wax wings. Alas, he flies too close to the sun. The wings melt. He plummets to the earth. It’s an ancient story, an imaginative myth, and it teaches us something valuable.
I’ll never forget when I bought my first lottery ticket. It’s never been my habit to gamble, even on a two-dollar super-duper sweepstakes. But the jackpot was enormous. There were no winners, so the jackpot got bigger. So, I bought a ticket. My imagination was on fire. What if I hit it big? I wouldn’t have to drive an old car. I could get the house fixed up. I could hire a lawn squad to take care of the property. I would have a lot more elbow room for paying my bills. One night, I watched the little balls pop out of the machine – three of those numbers were the same as mine. I could win this thing. I didn’t, not that night, nobody did, so the jackpot increased.
I told my father about it. He listened, then began to smile. As I shared my vain dreams, the smile became a smirk. Finally, I said, “What’s so funny?” Then he told me about a man who won the Super Six lottery in his hometown. A truck driver, I think. He became a millionaire overnight. Fortune smiled. He dumped his wife, found somebody else half her age. He moved out of the double wide trailer and bought a mansion high above the Allegheny River. The day he bought the winning ticket, he had $2.46 in his bank account. He blinked and won $16 million.
Alas, said my dad, it did not turn out well. The man bought a restaurant in Florida, a liquor license, and a used car lot. Then he bought a plane, even though he didn’t have a pilot’s license. Three months after the first payment on the ticket, he was half a million in debt. And then his brother hired a hit man to take him out in the hopes of getting the inheritance; that didn’t work, although it was a strain on the lottery winner’s sixth marriage.[1]
Are you seeing a theme here? Dad said, “Are you sure you want to win the lottery?” I mean, look at what happened to that guy. It was a haunting tale, so haunting that I threw away my lottery ticket. It’s still out there somewhere if you want it.
No doubt, the man in my dad’s true-life tragedy tale was inept. He didn’t have access to the kind of wealth management services that you and I might have. If we hit it big, you and I, what would we do? I mean, after writing out a check for our church’s endowment. First phone call would be to an attorney, then a financial planner, and then a security service to guard the home. We probably wouldn’t buy a Cessna if we had no license to fly.
And even if we guarded all that wealth, something could go wrong. Not falling into debt, but something far worse. Listen to the tale of woe from the Preacher of Ecclesiastes.
I had it all. I had houses, vineyards,
gardens, parks, and pools (plural).
I had hundreds of people working for me. I
owned them.
I had more sheep and cattle than anyone
ever had.
I plundered the silver and gold of
kingdoms.
I had hundreds of lovers and other
delights of the flesh.
And I hired countless number of musicians.
Then comes the last line of that bragging list: “And I hated life.” Oof. He had it all and he hated it.
What happened? Was he accused of swindling other people and lost the court case? No, there’s no mention of that. In fact, everything he did was legal and legitimate, at least for the time and place in which he lived (which may have been about four hundred years before Jesus). The sage of Ecclesiastes was honest. He was successful. He was blessed – or at least incredibly lucky. Everything he touched turned to gold. Every project he undertook was completed and paid for. Every accomplishment in his career brought him greater attention and acclaim. And it all made him sick to his stomach. Oy vey.
What went wrong? Can we make a diagnosis? It would be immensely helpful for us to understand, if only to know where life went off the track.
This is not Ebenezer Scrooge, holed up in his big house, counting his piles of cash but too cheap to put another chunk of coal on the fire. This is not the Hollywood rising star, winning the people’s choice award and unable to manage the sudden fame. This is not one of those pop singers on the Grammies, few of which I’ve ever heard of, shooting like a rocket, then disappearing after the hit song evaporates. No, something else is going on.
Is it boredom? Could be, we don’t know. It sounds like he has seen and heard it all, over and over. Sure, when you heard we would dig into Ecclesiastes for Lent, maybe you thought of chapter three. “For everything there is a season, turn, turn, turn.” Well, that’s a little bit from chapter three. Take the poem in context, and it sounds more like an endless cycle of the seasons. There’s a time for war, a time for peace, and then another time for war, and a time for peace. Life keeps circling around. What goes around comes around. Here we go again.
If you have put in a lot of time, you’ve seen it go around and around, too. Haven’t you? S.S.D.D. – same stuff, different day. And there can be a weariness, especially as the years accumulate and nothing improves. Ecclesiastes teaches that progress is overrated. Isn’t that true? I am old enough to remember someone say, “Computers will make your life easier.” Does anybody believe that to be true? Only if your hard drive has never crashed or your passwords have never been stolen. The truth is computers allow us to do more in less time than ever before. They can be wonderful tools. Yet they cannot make our lives any more substantial.
What’s going on with the Preacher of Ecclesiastes? Is he depressed, an ancient Eeyore braying out that everything turns out poorly? Possibly, but just a few lines below today’s text, we hear him say, “There is nothing better for mortals than to eat and drink and find enjoyment in their toil.” (2:24). He says it more than once.
No doubt someone will stop me at coffee hour and say, “Why didn’t you give us that verse, rather than the others?” Well, the quick answer is, “It’s Lent.” The better answer is, “There are more verses like these in Ecclesiastes than the happy ones you like.” And the best answer of all is this is a document of Jewish wisdom. As such, it has no intention of being logically consistent. Rather, this is a dialogical text. It skittles back and forth. In that dialogue, the Preacher pushes us to consider what is truly valuable about life. What really matters. If we have a quick answer, it’s probably not the right answer. To truly embrace the holy gift of life, we don’t skim across the surface. We dive into the depths.
So, tell me: what really matters? How do we spend our time, our money, our energy? Today, in chapter two, we hear the Preacher say there is limited joy in pleasure. There is limited satisfaction in consumption. It’s like eating too much chocolate cake. A little bit is tasty; too much is really too much.
Sure, we can jet off to Vegas, see a show, and throw some chips on the table. I’ve been there. It is what it is, an expensive distraction. Some of it is cheesy and mundane. Some of it appeals to the senses, provoking a WOW around every street corner. And there was that moment when six Elvis Presleys walked down the sidewalk. That was cool. If you enjoy the entertainment, and some of you do, then enjoy it.
But Ecclesiastes invites us to test the experience. The Preacher presses us to ask, “Why are there so many sad people in the casino? Why, at the floor show, are there some who are too numb to sing along? Why do those who devote themselves to consumption end up getting consumed?” And why are there a thousand people experiencing homelessness who live in the stormwater tunnels below the Las Vegas strip? There are no quick answers; yet a life that matters will ask the questions.
Now, I will be the first to agree: Ecclesiastes is a strange book. In the sixty-six books of scripture, it stands off to the side and scowls. As we make the long Lenten journey toward Easter, Ecclesiastes is a grumpy old man scowling on the park bench. He pops all the yellow balloons, then says, “See, I told you this could happen.” Like it or not, he reminds us that life is not all thrills and titillations. There are disappointments, too, and they match or exceed every success. Our true purpose will not be found chasing after the next new pleasure or the big new purchase.
So, welcome to a
journey with Ecclesiastes for Lent. We will read this scripture – and it will
read us. As it scrapes away all that is false, all that is empty, all that is
enticing, we are left with nothing but God. In the end, this is all that
matters. And the invitation of faith is to lean toward the eternal God who alone
can complete what we cannot. This is the beginning of wisdom.
[1] Read the sad tale here: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_Post
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