Ecclesiastes 1:7 All the rivers run into the sea; yet the sea is not full; to the place from where the rivers come, thither they return again.… "Vanity of vanities, all is vanity." Now, this view of the monotony of things has a great deal of truth in it. If you look at the matter in one aspect, there is a striking lack of originality displayed in creation. Everything material goes through the same process of birth, maturity, decay and death, whether it be a star or a universe, or the humblest insect that crawls. Our own lives, too, what a sameness there is about them, looked at from this old writer's point of view, which is very often our own. What a monotony there is about it all — what a lack of originality. We all go through the same programme in the main. We are each of us, as it were, given the main outlines of our little drama, and we are at liberty to fill in the scanty details for ourselves, all the plots are on the same model, and we seldom strike out any original line in the details. But is there not something more to be said on the matter? It is true that all things go through the same process of birth, maturity, decay and death; that in some aspects there is a deadly sameness throughout all creation from top to bottom. But there is also infinite variety, endless difference, nothing is precisely like anything else in the world. Examine as many as you like of any species of plants or animals, and no one will be found to be precisely like any other. Every dawn is different, and no two sunsets are alike; and though day succeeds day in orderly procession, yet no two days are alike in their combination of cold and heat, sunshine and shower, hurricane or sultry calm. Nor are the events they witness ever exactly reduplicated. And so with our daily lives and experiences. It is true that the plots of our little dramas are much alike, that the main outline is sketched in for us, and that we may only fill in the details of our lives. But it is those very details that we are apt to contemptuously pass by, that make our lives what they are, for better or for worse. It is in the details that individuality is shown — not in the main outline. There is no such thing as "mere detail" — detail is everything in this world. No two lives are alike, every existence is different, there is infinite variety in these very things that make our lives what they are. And the assertion that all things are full of weariness, because of their eternal sameness, is without foundation in fact. If the world seems full of weariness, the fault is in you, not in a world of infinite variety. This miserable plaint of the weariness of all things, then, is nothing new, and it is a cry that is still repeated in our ears only too often in the present day. What was the reason of it in the case of this philosophic grumbler of old? What was the reason of this unhappiness, in one who had everything that is commonly supposed to make life worth living — is the moral of the book that riches, power of intellect, artistic taste, refinement, learning, are all without value, and are powerless to give any pleasure to their possessor? By no means. All these things are good in themselves, may confer vast pleasure on those who have them, so long as they are not the end and aim of existence. Happiness is not the one aim and end of existence — it is the result of a well-lived life. If you make the attainment of happiness and pleasure the one object of existence as the Preacher did, then it will always elude you even as it did him. The Preacher was essentially an egoist, a selfish man. "How can I obtain happiness for myself?" was the cry of his soul, and although he tried every method, he never did obtain it. Just compare, for an instant, the life of this writer with its comfort, ease and luxury, to that of Jesus with its hardships, disappointments and sufferings. Both see the misery in the world, but while one sets to work to remedy it, the other sits and looks at it, and wrings his hands over it. Jesus saw the crookedness in life just as plainly as Ecclesiastes did, but instead of crooning a coronach over all human hopes and aspirations and endeavours, He set to work to make the crooked straight, bind up the brokenhearted, preach good tidings to the prisoners in the bonds of sin, and give a gospel of hope and encouragement to all; and in losing Himself in the service of others, He found a joy and peace that never left Him. It has ever been so, and it is so now. It is not from the toilers of earth that the cry of the weariness of all things goes up. It is not those who have to work from morning till night, and who are found day after day drudging away their lives at the same employments — it is not from these, as a rule, that the cry of the Preacher goes up. It is those who have nothing better to do with their time than to sit and brood over their little petty ailments or misfortunes, whose time hangs heavy on their hands, because of want of occupation, who have no conception of there being anything better in life than to pass through it as easily as possible — these are the people who are bored with existence. The men, however, who do the world's work, who try to right the wrong, straighten the crooked, raise the fallen, and improve the world, are not so; they have no time in which to indulge in the luxury of "the blues." They always find too much to do in the world, and in doing something for others they find a happiness that nothing else can bestow. (E. S. Hicks, M. A.) Parallel Verses KJV: All the rivers run into the sea; yet the sea is not full; unto the place from whence the rivers come, thither they return again. |
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