The last two verses of Chapter VIII. connect with the opening words of
this chapter. The more Ecclesiastes applies every faculty he has to
solve the riddle under the sun, robbing himself of sleep and laboring
with strong energy and will, he becomes only the more aware that that
solution is altogether impossible. The contradictions of nature baffle
the wisdom of nature. There is no assured sequence, he reiterates,
between righteousness and happiness on the one hand, and sin and misery
on the other. The whole confusion is in the sovereign hand of God, and
the righteous and the wise must just leave the matter there, for "no
man knoweth either love or hatred by all that is before them." What
discrimination is there here? Do not all things happen alike to all?
Yes, further, does not Time, unchecked by any higher power, sweep all
relentlessly to one common end? Love cannot be inferred from the "end"
of the righteous, nor hatred from the "end" of the sinner; for it is
one and the same death that stops the course of each. Oh, this is
indeed an "evil under the sun."
Darker and darker the cloud settles over his spirit; denser and still
more dense the fogs of helpless ignorance and perplexity enwrap his
intelligence. For, worse still, do men recognize, and live at all
reasonably in view of, that common mortality? Alas, madness is in
their hearts while they live, and after that they go to the dead; and
then all hope for them, as far as can be seen, is over forever. Dead!
What does that mean? It means that every faculty, as far as can be
seen, is stilled forever. The dead lion, whose majesty and strength,
while living, would have even now struck me with awe, is less
formidable as it lies there than a living dog. So with the dead among
men: their hatred is no more to be feared, for it can harm nothing;
their love is no more to be valued, for it can profit nothing; their
zeal and energy are no more to be accounted of, for they can effect
nothing; yea, all has come to an end forever under the sun. Oh, the
awfulness of this darkness! "Then I will give," continues
Ecclesiastes, "counsel for this vain life in conformity with the dense
gloom of its close. Listen! Go eat with joy thy bread, and merrily
drink thy wine; let never shade of sorrow mar thy short-lived pleasure;
let no mourning on thy dress be seen, nor to thy head be oil of
gladness lacking; merrily live with her whom thy affection has chosen
as thy life-companion, and trouble not thyself as to God's acceptance
of thy works--that has been settled long ago; nor let a sensitive
conscience disturb thee: whatsoever is in thy power to do, that do,
without scruple or question;[1] for soon, but too soon, these days of
thy vanity will close, and in the grave, whither thou surely goest, all
opportunities for activity, of whatever character, are over, and
that--_forever_!"
Strange counsel this, for sober and wise Ecclesiastes to give, is it
not? Much has it puzzled many a commentator. Luther boldly says it is
sober Christian advice, meant even now to be literally accepted, "lest
you become like the monks, who would not have one look even at the
sun." Hard labor indeed, however, is it to force it thus into harmony
with the general tenor of God's word.
But is not the counsel good and reasonable enough under certain
conditions? And are not those conditions and premises clearly laid
down for us in the context here? It is as if a whirlwind of awful
perplexities had swept the writer with irresistible force away from his
moorings,--a black cloud filled with the terrors of darkness and death
sweeps over his being, and out of the black and terrible storm he
speaks--"Man has but an hour to enjoy here, and I know nothing as to
what comes after, except that death, impenetrable death, ends every
generation of men, throws down to the dust the good, the righteous, the
sober, as well as the lawless, the false, and the profligate; ends in a
moment all thought, knowledge, love, and hatred;--then since I know
nothing beyond this vain life, I can only say, Have thy fling;--short,
short thy life will be, and vain thou wilt find this short life; so get
thy fill of pleasure here, for thou goest, and none can help thee, to
where all activities cease, and love and hatred end forever."
This, we may say, based on these premises, and excluding all other, is
reasonable counsel. Does not our own apostle Paul confirm it? Does he
not say, if this life be all, this life of vanity under the sun, then
let us eat and drink, for to-morrow we die? Yea, we who have turned
aside from this path of present pleasures are of all men most
miserable, if this vain life be all.
And are we to expect poor unaided human wisdom to face these awful
problems of infinite depth without finding the strongest evidence of
its utter incapacity and helplessness? Like a feather in the blast,
our kingly and wise preacher (beyond whom none can ever go) is whirled,
for the time being, from his soberness, and, in sorrow akin to despair,
gives counsel that is in itself revolting to all soberness and wisdom.
Nothing could so powerfully speak the awful chaos of his soul;
and--mark it well--_in that same awful chaos_ would you and I be at any
moment, my reader, if we thought at all, but for one inestimably
precious fact. Black like unto the outer darkness is the storm-cloud
we are looking at, and the wild, despairing, yet sad counsel, to "live
merrily" is in strict harmony with the wild, awful darkness, like the
sea-gull's scream in the tempest.
Let us review a little the path of reasoning that has led our author to
where he is; only we will walk it joyfully in the light of God.
"No man knoweth love or hatred by all that is before him." We have
looked upon a scene where a holy Victim--infinitely holy--bowed His
head under the weight of a judgment that could not be measured. It was
but a little while, and the very heavens could not contain themselves
with delight at His perfect beauty, His perfect obedience; but again,
and yet again, were they opened to express the pleasure of the Highest
in this lowly Man. Now, not only are they closed in silence, but a
horror seems to enwrap all creation. The sun, obscured by no
earth-born cloud, gives out no spark nor ray of light; and in that
solemn darkness every voice is strangely hushed. From nine till noon
the air was filled with revilings and reproaches--all leveled at the
one sinless Sufferer; but now, for three hours, these have been
absolutely silent, till at last one cry of agony breaks the stillness;
and it is from Him who "was oppressed and afflicted, yet opened not His
mouth; was brought as a lamb to the slaughter; and as a sheep before
her shearer is dumb, so opened He not His mouth:"--"Eli, Eli, lama
sabachthani"--"My God, my God, why hast Thou forsaken Me!"
There, my beloved readers, look there! Let that cross be before us,
and then say, "No man knoweth love or hatred by all that is before
them." Are not both revealed there as never before? Hatred! What
caused the blessed God thus to change His attitude towards the One who
so delighted Him that the heavens burst open, as it were, under the
weight of that delight? There is but one answer to that question.
_Sin_. Sin was there on that holiest Sufferer--mine, yours, my reader.
And God's great hatred of sin is fully revealed there. I know "hatred"
when I see God looking at my sin on His infinitely holy, infinitely
precious, infinitely beloved Son. * * * *
Let us meditate upon, without multiplying words over this solemn theme,
and turn to the Love that burns, too, so brightly there. Who can
measure the infinity of love to us when, in order that that love might
have its way unhindered, God forsakes the One who, for all the
countless ages of the eternal past, had afforded Him perfect "daily"
delight, was ever in His bosom--the only one in that wide creation who
could satisfy or respond, in the communion of equality, to His
affections--and turns away from Him; nay, "it pleased the Lord to
bruise Him"; "He hath put Him to grief." Ponder these words; and in
view of who that crucified Victim was, and His relationship with God,
measure, if you can, the love displayed there, the love in that one
short word "so"--"God _so_ loved the world that He gave His only
begotten Son;"--then, whilst viewing the cross, hear, coming down to us
from the lips of the wise king, "No man knoweth love or hatred." Hush!
Ecclesiastes, hush! Breathe no such word in such a scene as this.
Pardonable it were in that day, when you looked only at the disjointed
chaos and tangle under the sun; but looking at that cross, it were the
most heinous sin, the most unpardonable disloyalty and treason, to say
now, "No man knoweth love." Rather, adoringly, will we say, "In this
was manifested the love of God toward us, because that God sent His
only begotten Son into the world, that we might live through Him.
Herein is love, not that we loved God, but that He loved us, and sent
His Son to be the propitiation for our sins. And _we have known and
believed the love that God has to us_."
Yea, now let "all things come alike to all:"--that tender Love shall
shed its light over this stormy scene, and enable the one that keeps
_it_ before him to walk the troubled waters of this life in quiet
assurance and safety. Death still may play sad havoc with the most
sensitive of affections; but that Love shall, as we have before seen,
permit us to weep tears; but not bitter despairing tears. Further, it
sheds over the spirit the glorious light of a coming Day, and we look
forward, not to an awful impending gloom, but to a pathway of real
light, that pierces into eternity. The Day! We are of the Day! The
darkness passes, the true light already shines! Then listen, my
fellow-pilgrims, to the _Spirit's_ counsel: "But ye, brethren, are not
in darkness, that that day should overtake you as a thief. Ye are all
the children of light, and the children of the day: we are not of the
night, nor of darkness. Therefore, _let us not sleep_, as do others,
but _let us watch and be sober. For they that sleep, sleep in the
night; and they that are drunken, are drunken in the night. But let us
who are of the Day be sober, putting on the breastplate of faith and
love, and for an helmet the hope of salvation_."
Our poor preacher, in the darkness of the cloud of death, counsels,
"merrily drink thy wine." And not amiss, with such an outlook, is such
advice. In the perfect Light of Revelation, lighting up present and a
future eternity, well may we expect counsel as differing from this as
the light in which it is given differs from the darkness. _"The night
is far spent, the day is at hand: let us therefore cast off the works
of darkness, and let us put on the armor of light. Let us walk
honestly, as in the Day; not in rioting and drunkenness, not in
chambering and wantonness, not in strife and envy. But put on the Lord
Jesus Christ, and make no provision for the flesh, to fulfill the lusts
thereof_." _Amen and Amen_.
But once again our Preacher turns; and now he sees that it is not
assuredly possible for the advice he has given to be followed, and that
even in this life neither work, device, knowledge, nor wisdom, are
effective in obtaining good or in shielding their possessor from life's
vicissitudes. The swift--does he always win the race? Are there no
contingencies that more than counterbalance his swiftness? A slip, a
fall, a turned muscle, and--the race is not to the swift. The
strong--is he necessarily conqueror in the fight? Many an unforeseen
and uncontrollable event has turned the tide of battle and surprised
the world, till the "fortune of war" has passed into a proverb. The
skillful may not be able at all times to secure even the necessaries of
life; nor does abundance invariably accompany greater wisdom, whilst no
amount of intelligence can secure constant and abiding good.[2]
Time and doom hap alike to all, irrespective of man's purposes or
proposings, and no man knows what his hap shall be, since no skill of
any kind can avail to guide through the voyage of life without
encountering its storms. From the unlooked-for quarter, too, do those
storms burst on us. As the fishes suspect no danger till in the net
they are taken, and as the birds fear nothing till ensnared, so we poor
children of Adam, when our "evil time" comes round, are snared without
warning.
Absolutely true this is, if life be regarded solely by such light as
human wisdom gives: "Time and doom happen alike to all." The whole
scene is like one vast, confused machine, amongst whose intricate
wheels, that revolve with an irregularity that defies foresight, poor
man is cast at his birth; and ever and anon, when he least expects it,
he comes between these wheels; and then he is crushed by some "evil,"
which may make an end of him altogether or leave him for further
sorrows. All things seem to work confusedly for evil, and this caps
the climax of Ecclesiastes's misery.
Here is the sequence of his reasoning:
Firstly, There is no righteous allotment upon earth; the righteous
suffer here, whilst the unjust escape. Nay,
Secondly, There is an absolute lack of all discrimination in the death
that ends all; and,
Thirdly, So complete is that end, bringing all so exactly to one dead
level, without the slightest difference; and so impenetrable is the
tomb to which all go, that I counsel, in my despair, "Eat, drink, and
be merry, irrespective of any future."
Fourthly, But, alas! that, too, is impossible; for no "work, nor
device, nor knowledge, nor wisdom," can assure freedom from the evil
doom that haps, soon or late, to all.
Intensified misery! awful darkness indeed! And our own souls tremble
as we stand with Ecclesiastes under its shadow and respond to his
groanings. For the same scene still spreads itself before us as before
him. Mixed with the mad laughter and song of fools is the continued
groan of sorrow, pain, and suffering, that still tells of "time and
doom."
A striking instance of this comes to my hand even as I write; and since
its pathetic sadness makes it stand out even from the sorrows of this
sad world, I would take it as a direct illustration of Ecclesiastes's
groan. At Nyack on the Hudson a Christian family retire to rest after
the happy services of last Lord's Day, the 21st of October--an unbroken
circle of seven children, with their parents. Early on the following
morning, before it is light, a fire is raging in the house, and four of
the little children are consumed in the conflagration. The account
concludes: "The funeral took place at eleven o'clock to-day." That is,
in a little more than twelve hours after retiring to sleep, four of the
members of that family circle were in their graves! Here is an "evil
time" that has fallen suddenly indeed; and the sad and awful incident
enables us to realize just what our writer felt as he penned the words.
With one stroke, in one moment, four children, who have had for years
their parents' daily thought and care, meet an awful doom, and all that
those parents themselves have believed receives a blow whose force it
is hard to measure. Now listen, as the heathen cry, "Where is now
their God?" Why was not His shield thrown about them? Had he not the
power to warn the sleeping household of the impending danger? Is He so
bound by some law of His own making as to forbid his interfering with
its working? Worse still, was He indifferent to the awful catastrophe
that was about to crush the joy out of that family circle? If His was
the power, was His love lacking?
Oh, awful questions when no answer can be given to them;--and nature
gives no answer. She is absolutely silent. No human wisdom, even
though it be his who was gifted "with a wise and understanding heart,
so that none was like him before him, neither after him should any
arise like unto him," could give any answer to questions like these.
And think you, my reader, that nature does not cry out for comfort, and
feel about for light at such a time? Nor that the enemy of our souls
is not quick in his malignant activity to suggest all kinds of awful
doubt? Every form of darkness and unbelief is alive to seize such
incidents, and make them the texts on which they may level their
attacks against the Christian's God.
But is there really no eye to pity?--no heart to love?--no arm to save?
Are men really subject to blind law--"time and doom"?
Hark, my reader, and turn once more to that sweetest music that ever
broke on distracted reason's ear. It comes not to charm with a false
hope, but with the full authority of God. None but His Son who had
lain so long in His Father's bosom that He knew its blessed heart-beats
thoroughly, could speak such words--"Are not five sparrows sold for two
farthings." Here are poor worthless things indeed that may be truly
called creatures of chance. "Time and doom" must surely "hap" to
these. Indeed no; "not one of them is forgotten before God." Ponder
every precious word in simple faith. God's _memory_ bears upon it the
lot of every worthless sparrow; it may "fall to the ground," but not
without Him. He controls their destiny and is interested in their very
flight. If it be so with the sparrow, that may be bought for a single
mite, shall the _saint_, who has been bought at a price infinitely
beyond all the treasures of silver and gold in the universe, even at
the cost of the precious blood of His dear Son,--shall _he_ be subject
to "time and doom"? Shall his lot not be shaped by infinite love and
wisdom? Yes, verily. Even the very hairs of his head are all
numbered. No joy, no happiness, no disappointment, no perplexity, no
sorrow, so infinitesimally small (let alone the greatest) but that the
One who controls all worlds takes the closest interest therein, and
turns, in His love, every thing to blessing, forcing "_all to work
together for good_," and making the very storms of life obedient
servants to speed His children to their Home.
Faith _alone_ triumphs here; but faith _triumphs_; and apart from such
tests and trials, what opportunity would there be for faith _to_
triumph? May we not bless God, then, (humbly enough, for we know how
quickly we fail under trial,) that He _does_ leave opportunity for
faith to be in exercise and to get victories?
God first reveals Himself, and then says, as it were, "Now let Me see
if you have so learned what _I am_ as to trust _Me_ against all
circumstances, against all that you see, feel, or suffer." And what
virtue there must be in the Light of God, when so little of it is
needed to sustain His child! Even in the dim early twilight of the
dawning of divine revelation, Job, suffering under a very similar and
fully equal "evil time," could say, "The Lord gave, and the Lord hath
taken away, blessed be the name of the Lord:" accents sweet and
refreshing to Him who values at an unknown price the confidence of this
poor heart of man. And yet what did Job know of God? _He_ had not
seen the cross. _He_ had not had anything of the display of tenderest
unspeakable love that have we. It was but the _dawn_, as we may say,
of revelation; but it was enough to enable that poor grief-wrung heart
to cry, "Though He slay me, yet will I trust Him." Shall we, who enjoy
the very meridian of revelation light;--shall we, who have seen _Him
slain for us_, say _less_? Nay, look at the wondrous _possibilities_
of our calling, my reader,--a song, nothing but a song will do now.
Not quiet resignation only; but "strengthened with all might, according
to His glorious power, unto all patience and long-suffering with
_joyfulness_,"--and that means a song.
How rich, how very rich, is our portion! A goodly heritage is ours.
For see what our considerations have brought out: a deep _need_
universally felt; for none escape the sorrows, trials, and afflictions,
that belong, in greater or less degree, to this life.
The highest, truest, human wisdom can only recognize the need with a
groan, for it finds no remedy for it--time and doom hap alike to all.
God shows Himself a little, and, lo! quiet, patience, and resignation
take the place of groaning. The need _is_ met.
God reveals His whole heart fully, and no wave of sorrow, no billow of
suffering, can extinguish the joy of His child who walks with Him.
Nay, as thousands upon thousands could testify, the darkest hour of
trial is made the sweetest with the sense of His love, and tears with
song are mingled.
Oh, for grace to enjoy our rich portion more.
But to return to our book. Its author rarely proceeds far along any
one line without meeting with that which compels him to return. So
here; for he adds, in verses 13 to the end of the chapter, "And yet I
have seen the very reverse of all this, when apparently an inevitable
doom, an 'evil time,' was hanging over a small community, whose
resources were altogether inadequate to meet the crisis--when no way of
escape from the impending destruction seemed possible--then, at the
moment of despair, a 'poor wise man' steps to the front (such the
quality there is in wisdom), delivers the city, comes forth from his
obscurity, shines for a moment, and, lo! the danger past, is again
forgotten, and sinks to the silence whence he came. But _this_ the
incident proved to me, that where strength is vain, there wisdom shows
its excellence, even though men as a whole appreciate it so little as
to call upon it only as a last resource. For let the fools finish
their babbling, and their chief get to the end of his talking; then, in
the silence that tells the limit of their powers, the quiet voice of
wisdom is heard again, and that to effect. Thus is wisdom better even
than weapons of war, although, sensitive quality that it is, a little
folly easily taints it."
Can we, my readers, fail to set our seal to the truth of all this? We,
too, have known something much akin to that "little city with few men,"
and one Poor Man, the very embodiment of purest, perfect wisdom, who
wrought alone a full deliverance in the crisis--a deliverance in which
wisdom shone divinely bright; and yet the mass of men remember Him not.
A few, whose hearts grace has touched, may count Him the chief among
ten thousand and the altogether lovely; but the world, though it may
call itself by His name, counts other objects more worthy of its
attention, and the poor wise man is forgotten "under the sun."
Not so above the sun. There we see the Poor One, the Carpenter's Son,
the Nazarene, the Reviled, the Smitten, the Spit-upon, the Crucified,
seated, crowned with glory and honor, at the right hand of the Majesty
in the heavens; and there, to a feeble few on earth, He sums up all
wisdom and all worth, and they journey on in the one hope of seeing Him
soon face to face, and being with Him and like Him forever.
[1] I believe this is distinctly the bearing of these words, and not as
in our version.
[2] There seems lo be an intensive force to these words, constantly and
in each phase becoming stronger, in evident antithesis to the "work,
device, knowledge, and wisdom," that Ecclesiastes had just counseled to
use to the utmost in order to obtain "good" in this life.