Under the Sun – Among the Ruins
“I have seen everything that is done under the sun, and behold, all is vanity and a chasing after wind.”
— Ecclesiastes 1:14
Meditative Exposition
Hevel.
The Hebrew word Qoheleth wields like smoke between his fingers.
Our English translations call it vanity, futility, meaninglessness — but none of those quite fit.
Hevel is breath on a cold morning — visible, fleeting, insubstantial.
It is a word that weighs nothing, yet presses on the soul like gravity.
Life under the sun, he says, is full of it.
The rise and fall of kings.
The toil of the wise and the folly of fools.
Birth, death, gain, loss — all of it vapor.
This is not nihilism. It is honesty.
Qoheleth is not denying meaning; he is diagnosing its distortion.
Hevel is what happens when the eternal is sought in the temporal.
It is what we feel when we try to hold permanence with mortal hands.
We live in a culture that denies Hevel.
We chase permanence in pixels, proof in productivity, legacy in noise.
We confuse motion with meaning.
But the preacher of old stands in the sunlight, watching the wind spin in circles, and whispers,
“Stop running. Look. Everything you’re chasing will fade.”
And yet—
The weight of Hevel is not meant to crush us, but to awaken us.
Ecclesiastes is not despair; it is invitation.
It pulls down the scaffolding of false meaning so that we might see what cannot be taken away.
Hevel exposes our illusions — our gods of control, comfort, and continuation — and returns us to the simple, unglamorous grace of being here.
Hevel teaches us to receive rather than to grasp.
To enjoy the gift without claiming ownership.
To see that under the sun, life is not a problem to solve, but a breath to behold.
When Qoheleth says, “Fear God and keep His commandments,” he is not adding a moral to an existential rant.
He is revealing the one solid thing amid vapor.
The weight of Hevel presses us downward — into humility — where meaning begins again.
The poet’s task, the pilgrim’s task, is not to escape the vapor, but to walk through it without losing sight of the light that shines beyond it.
When we learn to live with Hevel, we begin to sense the paradox:
the fleeting can become precious precisely because it flees.
Bread tastes sweeter when we know it will be gone.
A friend’s laughter becomes holy when we know we cannot keep it.
Even tears become sacred when we learn they are gathered by God, not by time.
Hevel is the ache that teaches us eternity.
It is the teacher who says: This too will pass — and that is mercy.
Prayer of Lament
O Eternal One,
You have placed eternity in our hearts,
but we grasp at wind.
We chase permanence in dust,
and then mourn when it slips through our fingers.
We call our labors sacred,
but forget that even our monuments turn to rubble.
Teach us to bear the weight of Hevel without despair.
To see in its vapor the faint outline of Your breath.
Let our hearts learn the wisdom of transience —
that to lose what fades is not to lose what lasts.
Let us walk humbly under the sun,
content to be vapor in Your hands.
Amen.
Selah Box
Scripture Reading:
Ecclesiastes 1:1–18; Psalm 39:4–7; James 4:13–15
Reflective Question:
Where in your life do you resist the truth of Hevel — striving for control, permanence, or recognition?
How might surrender bring peace instead of despair?
Practice:
Hold a mirror close to your breath.
Watch the fog appear and vanish.
Whisper a prayer as it fades:
“Even this breath is Yours.”
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.
