Lent 2
February 25, 2024
I hated all my toil in
which I had toiled under the sun, seeing that I must leave it to those who come
after me —and who knows whether they will be wise or foolish? Yet they
will be master of all for which I toiled and used my wisdom under the sun. This
also is vanity. So I turned and gave my heart up to despair concerning all
the toil of my labors under the sun, because sometimes one who has toiled
with wisdom and knowledge and skill must leave all to be enjoyed by another who
did not toil for it. This also is vanity and a great evil.
What do mortals get
from all the toil and strain with which they toil under the sun? For all
their days are full of pain, and their work is a vexation; even at night their
minds do not rest. This also is vanity. 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 him
who can eat or who can have enjoyment? For to the one who pleases him God
gives wisdom and knowledge and joy; but to the sinner he gives the work of
gathering and heaping, only to give to one who pleases God. This also is vanity
and a chasing after wind….
…Then I saw that all toil and all
skill in work come from one person’s envy of another. This also is vanity and a
chasing after wind. Fools fold their hands and consume their own
flesh. Better is a handful with quiet than two handfuls with toil, and a
chasing after wind.
Again, I saw vanity under the
sun: the case of solitary individuals, without sons or brothers; yet there
is no end to all their toil, and their eyes are never satisfied with riches.
“For whom am I toiling,” they ask, “and depriving myself of pleasure?” This
also is vanity and an unhappy business.
It was a celebration. Most of the office gathered in the conference room. There were balloons and vanilla cake with the blue words, “Happy Retirement.” The secret had been kept for most of the month. Now, the crowd stood quietly as Tom was called to the conference room. “Surprise!” they shouted as he stepped into the room. He saw the cake, the balloons, and the co-workers he enjoyed.
Tom wipes a tear from his eye. He says, “Thank you. I’m going to miss all of you.” They echoed him, “We’re going to miss you too.” Someone shouted, “Speech, speech!” Another voice chimed in, “Yes, give us one last word!” Tom cleared his throat, paused for a minute. Someone said, “Come on, Tom. Speech!”
“I’m not much for speeches,” he said, “but I do have something to say.” People grinned and collectively leaned forward. “It’s time for me to go,” he said, “but when I’m gone, don’t mess everything up.” There was laughter. Then somebody realized he wasn’t kidding. That was his final word.
It is an Ecclesiastes word. The Preacher Poet who composes the book has seasoned experience. He knows how hard work can unravel quickly. Here in chapters two and four, he reflects on his high accomplishments. And he pays attention to what will likely happen when he is no longer in the picture. Such hard work, such total devotion, and one day it will come to nothing.
It can happen in business. Imagine, if you will, an excellent newspaper in a small city. The staff has outlived a lot of competition while keeping their standards high. That newspaper won awards for its reporting. They had a good habit of hiring good people. Many started early in their careers. They were green but skilled, technologically up to date, and hungry. They do good work. Their work is well respected.
But alas, the owners of the newspaper have a family squabble. Some want to move on to other pastures that have, shall we say, a lot of green. They have quietly sought offers to purchase the company, offers that will make them even richer. When the plot is exposed, the others say, “But this paper has been our life.” The squabble continues. The offer is generous. There is fear the new owners will shrink the product, outsource the labor, sell the building, and trim the local coverage. The matter will be decided by the owners. The workers will not be consulted.
A secret ballot is suggested, but the minority says, “No, everybody speaks.” The vote is taken, the grim news is given a positive spin. The staff is trimmed, the building sold, the paper printed in a plant three hours away – save money to make more money. When the dust settled, the three pieces of newsprint produced on four days a week are almost thick enough to wrap your leftover fish. “It’s all a matter of business,” say the new owners, while the former owners stay silent. That is a hypothetical situation, you understand.
And Ecclesiastes understands. Today’s confession is clear: “I hated all my toil in which I had toiled under the sun, seeing that I must leave it to those who come after me —and who knows whether they will be wise or foolish?” This is vanity. Foolishness is always a possibility, especially among those driven by competition, selfishness, or simple shortsightedness.
It happens. We know it happens. It happens in organizations. The office keeps careful files. They hold some sensitive information under lock and key. As the organization ebbs and flows, a new administrator comes in. He decides filing cabinets are a thing of the past. He makes his case that a virtual office is better than a physical one. “Think of all the rent money that could be saved,” he says.
Before the property is shut down, all the documents are sent off to be scanned, then placed online in a digital cloud. There is full assurance that the information will be readily accessed by leaders with appropriate passwords. What happens? You know what happens. There is turnover of leadership. When a crisis emerges, somebody looks for the files. The leaders are redirected to the cloud. Nobody can find the passwords.
Ecclesiastes surveys the situation and shakes its head. “Vanity of vanities” is the theological appraisal. Why did we work so hard for something that came to nothing? It’s a good question. It is a hard question. It’s an important question for the season of Lent. There is a time limit for us, for our work, for the work that we do. God is eternal; we are not. No matter how loudly we protest, time rolls on.
I was intrigued by the recent news, now reported by the Smithsonian. Smart scientists flew over the rain forests in the Amazon. From a helicopter 650 feet high, they pointed a special radar device at an area of Bolivia. It reads beneath the forest canopy, down into the soil. They discovered the ancient structures of a massive city surrounded by many villages. A million people might have lived there 1500 years ago, long before the European conquerors arrived. An entire civilization disappeared. It is now buried fifty feet beneath the rain forest.
The region was once described as “uninhabitable land.” It was widely believed by the Europeans that nobody had ever lived there. But that was not true. It was a competent, organized, technological savvy civilization. They had canals and reservoirs, a huge, fully urbanized community. They built it – and it came to nothing.[1] Time marched on.
Like what happened in my Eagle Scout project. When I asked the leaders of my childhood church if there was a service project that I could organize to earn my badge, they pointed me to the graveyard next door. It needed a lot of work. Many of the graves had sunken, leaving rectangular depressions in the ground. We brought in wheelbarrows of topsoil, filled them, and raked in some grass seed.
The harder work had to do with the tombstones. Several of them were covered with moss. I assigned two of the younger Scouts to scrub them with steel wool. It didn’t go well. At one point, one blustered out, “Why am I cleaning up a tombstone of somebody whose name has been washed away?” Good question. The elements had worn away the identity. He said, “Can’t we just let this one go? We don’t even know who it is.”
That reminds me of last Monday’s episode of NCIS. A beloved member of the NCIS staff died in his sleep. The team is shaken. They reflect on the death. One of them says something like, “There are two deaths. The first is the moment you die. The second death is when they stop telling stories about you.”
I hate to bring this up, but it is the season of Lent. Lent is the time to chew on the charcoal of our own mortality. Ecclesiastes is one of the few Biblical documents to lay everything out so honestly. We pursue medical treatments to stay healthy or get healthy. Sometimes they work for a while. Or like the community of Whos in Dr. Seuss’s book, “Horton Hears a Who,” we protest against destruction by shouting, “We are here, we are here, we are here.” We want to be noticed. We want life to go on.
To this, Ecclesiastes gives a provisional answer. Rather than the vain dream of going on continuously, the Preacher says, “Make the most of the life that you have.” There are limitations. There are inevitable conclusions. But there can be enjoyment even in the work that we do. And if it finds us, grab hold and take it for all that it’s worth.
Like the retired lady who volunteers at the same office where she retired. She shows up, everybody exclaims, “We thought you retired.” She says, “I did.” What are you doing here? She looks both ways, then says, “Don’t tell anybody, but I really liked what I did.” Hear that? She’s not doing it for the money. She simply likes doing the work.
Or that ancient professor of mine who translated the whole Bible. Long after he stopped teaching classes, he still burrowed down in the university library. Kept dressing in a tweed jacket and tie, long after he had to. Somebody got up the courage to ask, “Dr. Metzger, why are you here?” He smiled and said, “I love to learn. That was the best part of my job. So, I’m still learning.”
Or the volunteer who agrees to serve the church council. Or the Girl Scout leader whose daughter outgrew the Girl Scouts, yet she keeps track of the cookie orders. Or the grownup kid who loves to sing in the choir. Or the guy with the artificial leg who coaches the soccer team.
Let’s hear a good word for enjoyment. Ecclesiastes says it is a gift from God. “Apart from God who can eat or who can have enjoyment? For to the one who pleases him God gives wisdom and knowledge and joy.”
As Bible books go, Ecclesiastes is not full of good news. It’s full of news – just not good news. It describes the way things are, not the way things ought to be. And yet, when joy finds you, give it a big hug and do not let go. Don’t let go until the day when you have to let go.
We live our short lives in the light of God’s eternity. That is the truthful news of Ecclesiastes, who speaks on behalf of all the scriptures. Other news outlets will rise and fall. Institutions can collapse under their very human decisions. The houses we build will be covered someday by vegetation, the names on our stones will fade, and the artificial intelligence that boasts of its own eternity will someday be unplugged and exposed as artificial. That is the way of all things.
What do we do? We
keep the stories alive across the generations. We remember the people we have
loved. We share the lessons we are still learning. We offer field reports of
the Easter eggs we have found – “there’s one over here!” Most of all, we gently
push one another beyond the fleeting shadows of this age to the light of God’s
eternity. This is the beginning of wisdom.
[1] See, for instance, the report in https://www.bbc.com/news/science-environment-67940671
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