Ecclesiastes and the human condition

Christian responses to the book of Ecclesiastes (Qoheleth or the "Preacher") usually fall into two categories. The modern response tends to identify the text as thoroughly non-Christian, pessimistic, and included in the canon of scripture only by virtue of being considered one of the ancient "wisdom" texts. (Similar statements are often made in the case of the Song of Songs, pegged as an erotic poem and thoroughly secular in its intended meaning.) A more ancient response is offered by the patristic tradition of the early church: to see the enjoyment of life's good things as an allegory for the soul's delight in spiritual matters, so that the bread and wine of Ecclesiastes 9:7, for example, prefigure the Christian's bliss in partaking of the Eucharist. (Likewise, one traditional patristic response to the Song of Songs has been to interpret it as an allegory of the passionate love between God the Lover and the soul as the Beloved.)

I think we can read Ecclesiastes in another way as well, however. Its wisdom lies not in giving sage advice, or in simply being another collection of quaint ancient Near Eastern sayings, but rather in its painfully accurate description of the human condition. As revelation, scripture reveals, and in this case, reveals facets of human nature that ring all too true for any person having lived on this earth for more than a few years: the ultimate futility of work, pleasure, ambition, endeavor, all of which will be annihilated by death (Eccles 6:1-6); the lack of any certainty of ultimate justice (3:16-22); the nagging, bitter conviction that, inevitably, "things fall apart" according to inexorable cosmic laws that seem intentionally designed to frustrate any human efforts to establish a lasting dignity for oneself (12:1-8). In short, Ecclesiastes describes, often with haunting beauty, the brokenness that every human being without exception must experience. In this, the words of "the Preacher" point to the Incarnation: Jesus himself would labor under the burdens of this nature, would experience to the full its sorrows and frustrations, would face--in Gethsemane and on the cross--the almost certain conviction that "all is vanity," emptiness, loss, pointlessness. Yes, the cross is victory, but at the price of Jesus' experience of an emptiness so complete that he could express it only by that piercing cry of horror that must echo until the end of time: Eli, eli lama sabachthani?

A reflection: John baptizes Jesus in the River Jordan

Focus on the others for a moment: human beings, persons by the hundreds, each one aware of the brokenness of his existence, the mistakes of her life. They have begun to be honest with themselves, to see what they have done, whether it be deeds of selfishness, words of cruelty or neglect, plans of deceit. They also recognize, if only imperfectly in their act of turning, of metanoia, the nature of their thirst. It springs from their separation from God, their failure to cultivate the seed of life in their souls, the imprint of the divine nature in whose image they had been created. And so they flock to John, groping, grasping, only half aware of the possibilities of this baptism, hoping against doubt that the waters poured on them by this prophet will restore them to the peace they dreamed in dreams and laughed in play as young children.

John, too, is a sinner, purified by God through trials present and yet to be, but fully aware of the limits of his fragility. His besetting fear is of doubt: doubt that the promises will be fulfilled, that He will come, that, when he comes, that he is truly He. Doubt yet to be, in the dank cell, in the waiting for the inevitable sound of steps down the cold stairs, to summon the silenced prophet to his ultimate silencing. John's life a wasted effort, Herod's rashness would exact its brutal consequences.

Yet today, he stands in cool, flowing water, encountering the scores of sinful souls and bodies as they come to him, one by one, in their own sinfulness and excited hope. And then: a familiar face, his cousin, one he has long known, a presence he recognized once long before. Now again, the moment of recognition: of the other, the Lamb-Victim, of the self ("I am not worthy"), of the relationship, the song of love and reassurance as sinless heart woos sinful: "Let it be so now, for thus it is fitting ..." (Mt 3:15)

Cor ad cor loquitur

With the title of this blog, I certainly make no claim to have a share in John Henry Newman's literary gifts. Nevertheless, "heart speaks to heart" is an apt phrase for the quiet engagement that Jesus offers us in every conversation with him. And so, usually in the tradition of lectio divina, I will from time to time share a few of these thoughts in this space, thoughts of the heart which may resonate in the hearts of others in love with God, hearts painfully aware of the human limitations and weaknesses which we all share.