Ecclesiastes 1

The book begins by naming its speaker and then stating its thesis before it offers a single proof: The words of the Preacher, the son of David, king in Jerusalem. Vanity of vanities… all is vanity (vv. 1-2). The phrase vanity of vanities is the Hebrew way of forming a superlative - the same shape as “holy of holies” or “king of kings.” It does not mean some things are vain; it means this is vanity at its uttermost, vanity raised to the highest power. And the word repeats - the Preacher says it twice in a single verse, framing everything that follows. He speaks not as a bystander but as a king with David's name behind him, a man who commanded the resources to chase down every promise this life makes. That is what gives the verdict its weight. This is not the bitterness of someone shut out from the good things of the world. It is the report of a man who had them all, tried them all, and found them light as breath.¹

Then comes the question that drives the whole book: What profit hath a man of all his labour which he taketh under the sun? (v. 3). The word rendered profit is yitron, a term from the world of trade - it means the surplus, the gain left over once the accounts are settled. The Preacher is asking a brutally practical question. At the end of all the working and striving and building, when the ledger is closed, what is the remainder that nobody can take away? What stays? And he frames the whole inquiry with the phrase that will echo through the book: under the sun. He is asking specifically about the gain a person can secure within the bounds of this visible world, the world lit by the sun and bounded by the grave. His answer, worked out over the verses that follow, is that the surplus comes to nothing - the labour and the labourer alike are swept away, and the wheel turns on without them.³

To prove that nothing under the sun yields a lasting surplus, the Preacher does not argue; he simply points at the world and lets it speak. One generation passeth away, and another generation cometh: but the earth abideth for ever (v. 4). The first contrast is the most painful: people pass, the dirt remains. Then he watches three great natural cycles, and each one moves without ever arriving. The sun rises, sets, and hasteth to his place where he arose (v. 5), only to run the identical course tomorrow. The wind wheels south, then north, and the wind returneth again according to his circuits (v. 6) - restless, ceaseless, going nowhere new. All the rivers run into the sea; yet the sea is not full (v. 7); the water pours and pours and the sea never overflows, never finishes, never says enough. Notice what the Preacher is doing. He is describing perpetual motion that produces no progress - vast energy spent in circles. The whole cosmos, watched from under the sun, looks less like an arrow flying toward a target and more like a wheel turning back on itself. And if even sun and sea and wind cannot break the circle, what hope has a man?

The Preacher now turns from the wheeling world to the person watching it, and finds the same restlessness inside: All things are full of labour; man cannot utter it: the eye is not satisfied with seeing, nor the ear filled with hearing (v. 8). The whole creation is full of labour - weary, toiling, more than words can tell - and the human senses share its fatigue. Here is one of the most piercing observations in all of Scripture about the heart: the eye is not satisfied with seeing. You look, and the looking does not fill you; it only sharpens the appetite to look again. The ear is never filled with hearing; the song ends and you want another. Every pleasure of the senses leaves the same residue - not contentment but a faint, restless hunger for more. The Preacher has put his finger on something every honest person feels and few will say aloud: the things we reach for to make us full have no bottom, because the emptiness is not in the supply but in the vessel. The eye and the ear were made for more than the sun can show them, and so under the sun they are never done wanting.²

From the unfillable senses the Preacher draws his bleakest conclusion: The thing that hath been, it is that which shall be… and there is no new thing under the sun (v. 9). Everything that seems fresh, he insists, is only an old thing come round again: it hath been already of old time, which was before us (v. 10). And then the cruelest turn of the wheel - not only is nothing new, nothing is even remembered: There is no remembrance of former things; neither shall there be any remembrance of things that are to come (v. 11). The people of the past are forgotten, and the people of the future will forget us in our turn. This is the full weight of life lived only under the sun: trapped in a loop that offers nothing genuinely new and grants no lasting memory, so that even the comfort of being remembered is taken away. It is worth pausing to feel how true this is of the world on its own terms - and worth marking exactly where the Preacher set his boundary. He did not say there is no new thing, full stop. He said there is no new thing under the sun. The whole ache of the verse hangs on those three words, and they leave a door the chapter itself does not close.

Now the Preacher turns the investigation on the one thing he had above all others, and tells us his credentials before he tells us his findings: I the Preacher was king over Israel in Jerusalem. And I gave my heart to seek and search out by wisdom concerning all things that are done under heaven (vv. 12-13). This is no idle musing. A king with unrivalled means sets his whole mind - gave my heart - to a rigorous, sustained search by wisdom into everything happening beneath the heavens. And he calls the search itself a sore travail… God hath given to the sons of man to be exercised therewith (v. 13). That is a striking thing to say: the restless drive to understand, to make sense of it all, is itself a heavy burden laid on the human race. We are made to ask, and the asking exhausts us. His honest verdict on the whole inquiry: behold, all is vanity and vexation of spirit (v. 14). That last phrase - vexation of spirit - carries the picture of chasing the wind, reaching out to grab what cannot be caught. He examined everything the world offers, and it slipped through his fingers like air.

One result of the search lands as a flat, hard limit: That which is crooked cannot be made straight: and that which is wanting cannot be numbered (v. 15). The Preacher has run up against the brokenness of the world and found that his wisdom, for all its reach, cannot fix it. Some things are bent, and no amount of human cleverness can straighten them; some things are simply missing, and you cannot count what is not there. This is the wall that thought alone keeps hitting. We can describe the crookedness of the world with great precision - map the injustice, diagnose the sorrow, name every fracture - and still be utterly unable to mend it. Wisdom, on its own and under the sun, turns out to be a superb instrument for seeing what is wrong and a powerless one for setting it right. The Preacher is not despising wisdom here; he is honest about its ceiling. To make the crooked straight would take someone who could reach into the world from outside it - and that is exactly the help the sun-bound search cannot supply.

The chapter ends by pressing a paradox most of us would rather not face: I am come to great estate, and have gotten more wisdom than all they that have been before me in Jerusalem (v. 16) - and the fruit of all that wisdom is grief. For in much wisdom is much grief: and he that increaseth knowledge increaseth sorrow (v. 18). We tend to assume that understanding will console us, that if we could only see clearly we would be at peace. The Preacher reports the opposite. The more clearly he saw the world, the more there was to mourn. Knowledge did not dull the ache; it sharpened it, because to know more is to see more of what is broken, more of what is lost, more of what cannot be fixed (v. 15). He even gave his heart to study madness and folly (v. 17) - to map not only wisdom but its opposite - and that too proved to be chasing the wind. This is the floor the book lays down, and it is meant to feel like a floor: bare, honest, with nowhere left to stand. Wisdom under the sun can take the reader exactly this far and no farther. It can show that the visible world holds no answer; it cannot supply the answer. For that, the eye that grieves must look up - past the sun, to the One the rest of the book will name.