When Life Feels Like Hebel
Reflections on Ecclesiastes, Part 1
“Meaningless! Meaningless!” says the Teacher. “Utterly meaningless! Everything is meaningless.”
— Ecclesiastes 1:2
Some time ago, during seminary, I wrote a paper on Ecclesiastes. The assignment was to explore “the meaning of life” in the book, but it quickly became more than academic. I wrestled deeply as I wrote, because the questions of the Teacher felt uncomfortably close to my own. It was personal, emotional, and unsettling.
Now, in this season of waiting and in-between, I find myself returning to that paper. I want to see what wisdom Ecclesiastes might hold for me again, and maybe for you as well. Over the next three reflections, I’ll revisit the book’s honesty about life’s fleeting nature, its contradictions, and finally, its quiet invitation to fear God and receive life as a gift.
Some mornings, I watch the steam rise from my cup of coffee. For a moment, it curls upward, almost beautiful. Then, just as quickly, it vanishes.
That’s the image Ecclesiastes gives us: hebel. A word often translated as “meaningless,” but closer to “breath” or “vapor.” Something fleeting, elusive, impossible to hold. The Teacher, Qoheleth, looks at the world and says, “This is what life feels like.”
And if I’m honest, I know what he means. Maybe you do too.
Chasing After Wind
I kept telling myself, once I finish training, start practicing, get married, have kids, then I’ll feel settled. But the relief never stayed and some of the longings not fulfilled. As soon as I arrived, I found myself already looking toward the next thing.
Qoheleth tried the same experiment on a grander scale. He chased everything he could think of. He chased wisdom, pleasure, wealth, and work. “I denied myself nothing my eyes desired” (Eccl. 2:10). And yet his verdict was blunt: “everything was meaningless, a chasing after the wind” (2:11).
Have you ever chased something, only to discover it wasn’t what you hoped?
Saying It Out Loud
Most of us don’t like to admit this. We’d rather cling to verses that promise joy and strength, not verses that sound like despair. Ecclesiastes unsettles us because it names what we often bury: much of what we run after leaves us hollow.
But maybe that’s why Ecclesiastes itself is a gift. It doesn’t sugarcoat life. It tells the truth, even when it’s hard to hear. And in doing so, it gives us permission to tell the truth about our own lives too.
If you’ve ever whispered, “Is this all there is?”, Ecclesiastes nods back. You’re not alone.
The Invitation Inside the Ache
Still, the Teacher doesn’t write only to leave us in emptiness. Hidden inside his lament is an invitation: if everything “under the sun” feels like vapor, maybe it’s time to look beyond it.
Pleasure, wealth, work, even wisdom are not evil. But they can’t bear the weight of being ultimate. They can’t give us the meaning we hunger for.
Qoheleth hints at another way: life not as something to grasp, but as something to receive. Joy not as something to manufacture, but as a gift. Reverence for God as the anchor that keeps us steady when everything else proves slippery.
But before he leads us there, he asks us to sit honestly with the vapor. To admit what we’d rather deny: that life often feels like hebel, like breath that disappears in the morning air.
And maybe that’s where true meaning begins. Not in pretending everything makes sense, but in confessing how often it doesn’t.
Reflection Question
What are you wrestling with right now that feels like vapor in your hands?
In the next reflection, we’ll look at how Ecclesiastes faces life’s contradictions: the seasons we cannot control, the injustices that wound, and the reality of death.