Chuck Larsen

Solomon’s reflections in Ecclesiastes 4:1–8 read like a tour through the darker corners of human relationships. He begins with oppression, describing a world where the powerful crush the powerless and neither side finds comfort. His despair is so deep that he remarks it might be better never to have been born than to witness such cruelty. That is not exactly the sort of verse anyone stitches on a decorative pillow, yet the point is clear: people are not objects to be used for pleasure, privilege, or position. Albert Speer’s description of Hitler in Inside the Third Reich reinforces this sobering reality. He wrote that Hitler “could fascinate, but he could not respond to friendship… At the core of the place where his heart should be, Hitler was a hollow man.” Where love is absent, both oppressor and oppressed remain comfortless. Comfort is a gift that grows only where genuine care exists, and it withers when people are treated like tools rather than treasured lives.

Solomon then shifts from seeing people as objects to seeing them as rivals. He observes that much human effort springs from envy: “A man’s skill in his work comes from his envy of his neighbor.” The ancient world apparently had its own version of keeping up with the Joneses. Solomon calls this relentless striving “chasing after the wind,” a poetic phrase that gently suggests the futility of trying to grab what cannot be held. John Bunyan pictured this in Pilgrim’s Progress when Pilgrim met the man with the rake who stared only at the ground, searching for treasure in the dirt while a celestial crown hovered above him. He never looked up and missed the glory entirely. Many of us understand that posture. We study schedules, emails, and anxieties with great concentration while overlooking the people standing beside us. The finest gifts often arrive in ordinary relationships, yet they can be missed while we chase something that promises satisfaction but never delivers.

Finally, Solomon addresses the illusion of isolation. He describes the person who decides, “I do not need anyone.” C. S. Lewis warned that a heart locked away from others may become “unbreakable, impenetrable, and irredeemable.” The New Testament offers a different vision through Jesus Christ. He declared, “This is my commandment, that you love one another as I have loved you” (John 15:12). Paul added, “We are members one of another” (Ephesians 4:25). Jesus did not live as a rock or an island. He entered human loneliness, shared meals, wept with friends, and gave Himself for others. In Him, relationships find healing and purpose, and the hollow places of the human heart discover fullness.

In Ecclesiastes 3:18–20 we are reminded that God is testing humanity. The writer observes that people and animals share the same breath and the same end: “All are from the dust, and to dust all return.” Mortality is not merely a biological fact but a spiritual lesson. God allows human frailty to reveal who we are and who He is. A childhood memory sometimes captures this truth in unexpected ways. As children splashed in a summer pool and later played “Ring Around the Rosie,” the familiar line echoed: “Ashes! Ashes! We all fall down.” At six years old, those words seemed only playful. Later reflection reveals their sobering echo. Some historians link the rhyme to the Great Plague, with its rash, its posies, and its tragic ending. Whether or not that connection is exact, the message remains: all of us fall down. Death arrives without regard to status or strength. Neither clever plans nor human effort can fully shield us. The fall of humanity placed mortality upon us all, and it remains beyond our control.

Recognizing mortality often changes perspective. It humbles ambition and places achievements in their proper context. We make plans, collect possessions, and imagine we are steering the ship, only to discover we are passengers more than captains. Life can feel like an exam for which the study guide never fully arrives. We try to compare ourselves favorably with others, though the mirror sometimes reveals a more honest report. In this sense, life exposes our dependence. Ogilvie notes that we must trust God’s deeds since our own are limited and our lives too brief to see ultimate justice. Another commentator writes, “Our present existence is a proving ground. It is a test… in the sense of something that demonstrates our true character.” Mortality reveals our place in the universe and our relationship to God. The lesson can be uncomfortable, like discovering the answer key is not in our possession after all.

The New Testament speaks directly to this human condition. Jesus described Himself as the shepherd, saying, “I am the good shepherd. The good shepherd lays down his life for the sheep” (John 10:11). While humanity returns to dust, Christ offers a different horizon: “For as in Adam all die, so also in Christ shall all be made alive” (1 Corinthians 15:22). Mortality becomes a teacher pointing beyond itself. Paul writes, “For this perishable body must put on the imperishable” (1 Corinthians 15:53). In Christ, the testing ground of life reveals not only human frailty but also divine grace, reminding us that while all fall down, God’s redemptive purpose stands.