Not only does conventional wisdom often contain truth, but we could not live without it. We could not live together in groups without taken-for-granted expectations about human behavior, ranging from the taboo against cannibalism to confidence that people will stop at stop signs.
Moreover, some forms of conventional wisdom are better than others. One needs only to think of the conventional wisdom of the Third Reich versus the conventional wisdom of societies strong in human rights, or conventional wisdom about race in the United States now compared with that of fifty years ago. So conventional wisdom and its content matter.
But conventional wisdom has a cruel corollary. If your life fails to work out, it must be because you have done something wrong. Trouble is your fault. Just as conventional wisdom about the importance of disciplined work can often lead to the poor being blamed for their poverty, so those for whom life is hard are often seen (in their own mind or in the minds of others) as responsible for their hardship.
The problem posed by the corollary of conventional wisdom brings the central claims of Proverbs into question. Do things work out if you live right? (Always, or only sometimes?) Are the righteous rewarded and the wicked punished? (Always, or only sometimes?) Is life fair? (Always, mostly, sometimes, or seldom?)
As noted earlier in this chapter, the wisdom literature of the Hebrew Bible does not speak with one voice on these issues. While Proverbs is fairly unambiguous, the other two wisdom books hint at randomness and chance. And if life is not so well ordered as Proverbs suggests, what does that say about how we should live? What does it say about the purpose of life? What does it say about the nature of God?
These are the questions with which the authors of Ecclesiastes and Job wrestle.
Ecclesiastes
For many modern people, Ecclesiastes is the most “user-friendly” book in the Hebrew Bible (and perhaps in the Bible as a whole). It requires of its readers no knowledge of Israel’s history, its language strikes people as speaking immediately to life, and its melancholic tone seems to fit the modern spirit. Almost uniformly, my students report liking Ecclesiastes.
Its author is “Qoheleth,” which is not a name in Hebrew but a title or office. Most likely, the word means “teacher”—more specifically, “wisdom teacher”—and in this case probably a teacher who lived in Jerusalem. The title of the book—Ecclesiastes—is the Greek word for Qoheleth. Though the words are thus interchangeable, I will follow the convention of referring to the author as Qoheleth and the book as Ecclesiastes.
Though Qoheleth writes as King Solomon in the first two chapters, this is clearly done for rhetorical effect rather than to reflect actual authorship by Solomon. The book is one of the latest in the Hebrew Bible, typically dated around 300 to 250 BCE.
Scholarly assessment of Ecclesiastes varies greatly. Some scholars find it so unrelievedly pessimistic that they wonder how it ever got into the Bible. They claim that the author’s skepticism about generally accepted religious convictions is so thoroughgoing as to suggest that he might as well have been an atheist. Other scholars greatly admire Qoheleth, not just for his honesty but for his religious vision. Whether to think of him as a wisdom teacher gone bad (perhaps “burned out”) or as among the wisest of the wise is the central issue in the interpretation of this book. But before I turn to that, I will identify Qoheleth’s two central metaphors and look at the themes raised in key passages of Ecclesiastes.
Central Metaphors
The first central metaphor is “Vanity of vanities: all is vanity.” Not only does Qoheleth begin and end his book with this thematic metaphor, but it is a repeating refrain throughout.19 The Hebrew word translated as “vanity” is hebel. Though sometimes translated with the quite abstract words “emptiness,” “meaningless,” or “absurdity,” hebel has more concrete literal meanings that are the basis for its metaphorical meaning in Ecclesiastes: breath, vapor, mist, or fog. All is breath; all is vapor; all is mist; all is fog. The connotations are insubstantiality (one cannot get hold of breath, vapor, mist, or fog), ephemerality (insubstantial substances such as vapor come and go), and obscured vision (especially if mist or fog is emphasized).
A second metaphor—“chasing after wind”—also occurs frequently. That phrase is sometimes translated as “herding” or “shepherding” the wind. It is, of course, an image of futility.
The King’s Speech
The two metaphors named above are central to the opening speech of the book. From the middle of the first chapter through the end of the second, Qoheleth speaks as King Solomon.20 The strategy is brilliant.
As the traditional father of wisdom in Israel, Solomon had an unrivaled reputation for sagacity. Moreover, he was fabled for having everything a human being might desire: not only wisdom, but power, fame, wealth, reputation, security, possessions, sensual pleasure. Solomon had everything that the conventional wisdom of most cultures desires.
Qoheleth imagines Solomon turning to all of these in his search for a satisfying life. But they do not satisfy. About all that conventional wisdom prizes, the verdict is the same: they are “vanity” and “chasing after wind.” Ten times in the speech, one or both of the metaphors occur. All that Solomon has is declared to be vapor or fog: insubstantial, ephemeral, unsatisfying. The final line of the speech brings the two metaphors together: “All is vanity and a chasing after wind.”21
The Righteous Sometimes Do Not Prosper
Solomon’s speech is the first stage in Qoheleth’s indictment of conventional wisdom. The next step is the rejection of conventional wisdom’s central claim: if you follow the path of righteousness—the wise way—you will do well and be rewarded.
In my vain life I have seen everything: there are righteous people who perish in their righteousness, and there are wicked people who prolong their life in their evildoing.
There is a vanity that takes place on earth, that there are righteous people who are treated according to the conduct of the wicked, and there are wicked people who are treated according to the conduct of the righteous.
Again I saw that under the sun the race is not to the swift, nor the battle to the strong, nor bread to the wise, nor riches to the intelligent, nor favor to the skillful; but time and chance happen to them all.22
Qoheleth knows that people often suffer from oppression through no fault of their own; they are simply the victims of power:
Again I saw all the oppressions that are practiced under the sun. Look, the tears of the oppressed—with no one to comfort them! On the side of their oppressors there was power.23
Qoheleth’s perception of life’s inequities leads to despairing statements about whether life is worthwhile at all:
And I thought the dead, who have already died, more fortunate than the living, who are still alive; but better than both is the one who has not yet been, and has not seen the evil deeds that are done under the sun.24
The Specter of Death
Ecclesiastes is haunted by death. The author returns to the subject again and again. He does not simply say that we are mortal; he dwells on that fact, emphasizes it.
Qoheleth stresses the utter inevitability of death. We are no different from the animals—one fate awaits us all:
For the fate of humans and the fate of animals is the same; as one dies, so dies the other. They all have the same breath, and humans have no advantage over the animals; for all is vanity. All go to one place; all are from the dust and all turn to dust again.25
He also stresses the randomness of death. Not only are we fated to die, but the timing of our death is as random as what happens to fish and birds:
For no one can anticipate the time of disaster. Like fish taken in a cruel net, and like birds caught in a snare, so mortals are snared at a time of calamity, when it suddenly falls upon them.26
The inevitability and randomness of death make our conventional pursuits meaningless. Death comes regardless:
Yet I perceived that the same fate befalls all of us. Then I said to myself, “W
hat happens to the fool will happen also to me. Why then have I been so very wise?” And I said to myself that this is also 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.27
For Qoheleth, the certainty and randomness of death drive an arrow into the heart of conventional wisdom. Nothing that we do or have—none of what we spend our lives seeking to achieve, possess, and control—can forestall death, can alter its inevitability or timing. Moreover, when death comes, it takes away everything we have acquired: wisdom, wealth, honor, a good name, family, possessions.
Nothing can affect this, says Qoheleth. Neither wisdom nor righteousness nor goodness nor worship can change either the inevitability or the randomness of death:
The righteous and the wise and their deeds are in the hand of God; whether it is love or hate, one does not know. Everything that confronts them is vanity, since the same fate comes to all, to the righteous and the wicked, to the good and the evil, to the clean and the unclean, to those who sacrifice and those who do not sacrifice. As are the good, so are the sinners; those who swear are like those who shun an oath. This is an evil in all that happens under the sun, that the same fate comes to everyone.28
Qoheleth’s case against conventional wisdom is complete. The rewards of conventional wisdom do not satisfy; even Solomon, who had them all to a superlative degree, found them lacking. Reality is not organized in such a way that the righteous are rewarded and the wicked punished. Death comes to all, and comes randomly. Conventional wisdom, whether in Proverbs or elsewhere, affirms that reality is orderly. But in Qoheleth’s view, God has made the world not orderly and straight, but crooked.29
Then How Live?
If this is the way things are, what then is life about? What should we concern ourselves with? Qoheleth’s answer, surprisingly simple and brief, is repeated several times for emphasis. Here are its first two appearances:
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. . . .
I know that there is nothing better for people then to be happy and enjoy themselves as long as they live. Moreover, it is God’s gift that all should eat and drink and take pleasure in all their toil.
In its longest form:
Go, eat your bread with enjoyment, and drink your wine with a merry heart; for God has long ago approved of what you do. Let your garments always be white; do not let oil be lacking on your head. Enjoy life with the wife whom you love all the days of your vain life that are given you under the sun, because that is your portion in life and your toil at which you toil under the sun. Whatever your hand finds to do, do with your might.30
But even this simple, world-affirming advice is followed immediately by the specter of death:
For there is no work or thought or knowledge or wisdom in Sheol, to which you are going.31
Sheol does not mean “hell” as a place of punishment where some go. Sheol is the land of the dead, where all go.
Reading Ecclesiastes and Hearing Qoheleth
What are we to make of this? As mentioned earlier, there is no consensus among scholars regarding how to hear Qoheleth’s message. To some, his pessimism and gloom seem to speak of a world from which God is absent. His disparagement of life’s common goals suggests aimlessness. His positive advice sounds difficult to distinguish from the familiar “Eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow we may die.” Is this really wisdom, or is this the way the world looks when someone has given up on life?
As we puzzle about how to hear Qoheleth, let me suggest that context and inflection make all the difference. I invite you to imagine three different ways of saying (and thus hearing) the best-known passage in Ecclesiastes. Because of its length, I will not quote it all:
For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven:
a time to be born, and a time to die;
a time to plant, and a time to pluck up what 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 embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing . . .
a time to love, and a time to hate;
a time for war, and a time for peace.32
1: First scenario. Because the words of this passage became the lyrics of a popular folksong, most of us have heard them sung. I can remember some performances that gave the text a moral meaning, expressing a preference for one-half of each set of opposites: this, not that. The inflection made it clear that this time (our time) is a time for peace, not war; a time for love, not hate; a time to heal, not kill; a time to dance, not mourn. However, I do not imagine that Qoheleth meant this.
2: Second scenario. Imagine this passage as read by a depressed Swedish Lutheran pastor in an Ingmar Bergman movie. The church is almost empty, the cold light of a gray winter morning makes everything pale and colorless, the voice is flat with despair, and there is virtually no one to hear it. Life is bleak—unbearably so—an endless cycle of meaningless repetition. This is an exaggerated form of some scholarly ways of reading Ecclesiastes.
3: Third scenario. Imagine these same words as read by the Dalai Lama. The meaning would be very different. Not “this versus that,” and not “everything is meaningless.” Rather: live fully, whatever time it is. Be present to what is.
This third scenario is how I hear Qoheleth. His critique of conventional wisdom is similar to what we hear in the writings of Lao-tzu, a sixth-century BCE Chinese wisdom teacher whose teaching is preserved in the Tao-te-ching. Lao-tzu’s thought is similar to that of Buddhism, especially Zen Buddhism. Like Qoheleth, Lao-tzu offers a radical critique of conventional wisdom.
The Tao (pronounced “dow”) is Lao-tzu’s word for both ultimate reality and “the way” of living in accord with it. Language cannot capture or domesticate the Tao as ultimate reality, as the opening line of the Tao-te-ching makes clear: “The Tao that can be named is not the eternal Tao.” The Tao is thus intrinsically ineffable, “Mystery” with a capital M. The way of living in accord with the Tao is “not grasping.” The way most of us live most of the time—the way of conventional wisdom—is the way of grasping. We grasp not only by seeking to domesticate reality, but also by seeking those satisfactions that convention urges us to seek. But grasping is futile. Indeed, in Buddhism, it is the primary source of suffering.
The similarities to Qoheleth are striking. Qoheleth’s claim that we cannot make straight what God has made crooked points to the Mystery of the sacred. For Qoheleth, God is not absent; God is simply beyond all of our attempts to domesticate the divine.
His central metaphors of “all is vanity” (vapor, mist, fog) and “chasing the wind” point to the futility of grasping: we cannot lay hold of that which is insubstantial and ephemeral. Moreover, that which we can momentarily possess is ultimately unsatisfying.
His emphasis on death also fits this way of reading Ecclesiastes. For Qoheleth, death is not only the specter that haunts conventional wisdom, pointing to the futility of grasping. Death is also the master teacher who teaches us how to live:
It is better to go to the house of mourning
than to go to the house of feasting;
for this is the end of everyone,
and the living will lay it to heart.
The heart of the wise is in the house of mourning;
but the heart of fools is in the house of mirth.33
The striking poem with which Qoheleth ends the book makes the same point. Filled with images of aging and decline, it includes the line, “Remember your grave in the days of your youth.”34 This injunction reflects not a melancholic, pessimistic attitude that robs even youth of
its joy, but the belief that the awareness of death teaches us about what is important in life. Death is the teacher of true wisdom.
In this context, Qoheleth’s admonition to live the life of simplicity does not sound like a cynical or burned-out “Eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow we may die”; rather, it comes across as genuine wisdom:
Go, eat your bread with enjoyment, and drink your wine with a merry heart. . . . Enjoy life with the wife whom you love. . . . Whatever your hand finds to do, do with your might.35
To do whatever you do “with your might” suggests living strongly, not tentatively; living fully, not holding back. Thus, in Ecclesiastes, life is not about pursuing the rewards promised by the path of conventional wisdom (religious or secular), but about living in the present. Seeing the futility of grasping and the inevitability and yet unpredictability of death drives us into the present.36 True wisdom means carpe diem: “seize the day.” Don’t miss it; don’t let it slip by unnoticed; don’t live it in the fog; don’t waste it chasing the wind.
Reading the Bible again for the First Time Page 16
