“Hevel, hevel, all is hevel.”
The Teacher in Ecclesiastes begins his sermon with this refrain, and the sound lingers like smoke in a burned out hall. The Hebrew word ‘hevel’ is often translated as vanity, or meaningless, or futility, but the word itself is softer… perhaps slipperier. It is vapor. Mist. The breath on a cold morning that you see for a moment and then it is gone.
We live in a world of vapor.
And yet we expect vapor to hold as though it were stone. We clutch after it, weigh it, build upon it, even swear by it. But vapor cannot bear weight. A grasping hand closes on nothing, though it could have sworn it once held something solid.
This is the dissonance of being here: the things that seem weighty are insubstantial, while the things that seem invisible are eternal.
The Weight of the Breath
The paradox is this: vapor does have a kind of weight. It presses upon us in its absence of substance. It mocks us with its impermanence. Try to hold your laughter too tightly, and it is gone. Try to keep your youth, and it slips through your fingers. Try to capture joy in a photograph, and the moment flees into nostalgia.
What is heavier than the weight of what cannot be kept?
It is the burden of knowing that all you love is fragile. That your breath, the very word for spirit, is but a few thousand inhalations and exhalations from silence.
Qoheleth, The Teacher, felt this heaviness when he wrote:
“What does man gain by all the toil
at which he toils under the sun?
A generation goes, and a generation comes,
but the earth remains forever.” (Ecclesiastes 1:3–4)
We toil, we build, we plant, we sing — but we cannot keep.
Smoke in the Sanctuary
I recall a story of a man walking through the charred remains of a church after fire had gutted it. The pews were gone, only stumps of wood remained. The cross that once stood behind the pulpit had fallen, its edges warped. And yet, smoke still hung in the air, curling through broken windows.
The building had been full of prayers, hymns, laughter, grief. But what lingered was only smoke.
So too with us.
We walk among ruins. Our songs are honest, our prayers are offered, our labors are not wasted in God’s sight – and yet the visible fruit of them will always soon wither. The smoke of all our efforts hangs for a moment, then dissipates.
It would be unbearable, were it not for the unseen Presence who does not fade.
Futility and Desire
We are creatures who desire permanence. We want our love to last, our work to matter, our memory to endure. That desire itself is a clue that we were made for more than mist.
But here, east of Eden, permanence is elusive. Everything turns to vapor. Wealth becomes dust. Beauty wrinkles. Achievements are forgotten by the next flurious news cycle. Even the wisest and the strongest are soon spoken of in past tense.
So the Teacher groans:
“Then I considered all that my hands had done and the toil I had expended in doing it, and behold, all was vanity and a striving after wind.” (Ecclesiastes 2:11)
Striving after wind… what a haunting phrase. The wind moves. It can be felt. But it cannot be caught.
This is the lament of existence under the sun: everything we cling to slips away.
The Hidden Weight of Glory
And yet, paradox again, vapor can reveal. When sunlight strikes morning mist, it glows with gold. When incense smoke curls in the temple, it points to prayer rising. What is fleeting can become a signpost to what endures.
C.S. Lewis once wrote of the “weight of glory” – that our present life is not ultimately the meaningless vapor it appears to be, but seed form of something yet to be revealed. Paul said the same:
“For this light momentary affliction is preparing for us an eternal weight of glory beyond all comparison.” (2 Corinthians 4:17)
The vapor is real. But it is not the end. The vapor presses us toward longing, toward a greater substance. Its weight is in what it awakens: the cry, “Come, Lord Jesus.”
Bearing the Vapor
So how shall we live here, among the ruins, under the sun, knowing our lives are as vapor?
Not by denial. The Teacher did not paint over futility with optimism. He named it. We should too. The work feels empty, the days are fleeting, the grave is not far.
Not by despair. To say all is vapor is not the same as to say nothing matters. Toil and laughter, love and wisdom — all are gifts in their season, even if they do not last. To savor bread and wine today is a kind of rebellion against the void.
Not by presumption. The vapor reminds us we are not gods. We are creatures, limited and finite, dependent on the One who alone endures. Our plans vanish, our days are numbered, our control is illusory. To live with humility before God is to live truthfully amid the mist.
A Prayer in the Mist
Lord of eternity,
teach us to count our days,
to name the vapor without fear,
to see through smoke to substance.
Make us wise in our finitude.
Make us grateful in our fleeting joys.
Make us steadfast in our waiting.
Let the weight of the vapor
press us into Your everlasting arms.
Amen.
Selah
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Scripture to hold: Ecclesiastes 1:2–4; 2 Corinthians 4:17.
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Question to ponder: What vapor have I been clutching as though it were stone?
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Practice: Sit quietly for five minutes, watching your breath appear and disappear on the air. With each exhale, whisper: “Hevel.” With each inhale, whisper: “Lord, You endure.”
Every hard journey is eased by good companions, and your steps alongside mine are a gift to me.
Should you wish, you may contribute some coin to the Pilgrim’s Purse.
