An Absurd Universe: Despair or Delight

Ecclesiastes 2:12–17 ESV

So I turned to consider wisdom and madness and folly. For what can the man do who comes after the king? Only what has already been done. Then I saw that there is more gain in wisdom than in folly, as there is more gain in light than in darkness. The wise person has his eyes in his head, but the fool walks in darkness. And yet I perceived that the same event happens to all of them. Then I said in my heart, “What happens to the fool will happen to me also. Why then have I been so very wise?” And I said in my heart that this also is vanity. For of the wise as of the fool there is no enduring remembrance, seeing that in the days to come all will have been long forgotten. How the wise dies just like the fool! So I hated life, because what is done under the sun was grievous to me, for all is vanity and a striving after wind.

Introduction

World War 1—the Great War—the War to End all Wars took its toll on France. It is estimated that about 1.5 million French soldiers died—some 16% of the men who fought. As the war was winding down, the Spanish Flu took hold of the country killing another 250,000 civilians. The nation—geographically, politically, socially, and spiritually—was in ruins. Algeria—a part of France—also saw major devastation. About 170,000 of its young men were conscripted to fight in the war. Another 86,000 worked in the war industries. Much of its resources were used by the French as well. In the midst of all this, a young Albert Camus was born and reared.

Camus was a pied-noir—a foreign-born French citizen in Algeria. He was born the year before the first World War, having lost his father in one of its battles. He was only nineteen when Hitler rose to power. Before he was thirty years of age, he wrote his first book—L’etranger (The Stranger)—explaining his own philosophical worldview in fiction form. I read this book (in English) this past week so you wouldn’t have to. You’re welcome. It is not an exciting book. It is like finding the diary of the most boring person you know and reading it, only to find out they are more boring that you knew. That might be a bit of an exaggeration, but not by much.

The Stranger is about a young man—Meursault (pronounced Mur So) living in Algeria whose mother had just passed away. He neither felt sad nor happy about it. It was a moment in his life. No tears were shed or kind words spoken. When asked her age, the young man didn’t actually know. The next day, he went to see a comedy film, met a former female coworker, and started a relationship with her. Everyone seemed to bore him. He felt little emotions. When the girl asked if he loved her. His response: “I said that sort of question had no meaning, really; but I supposed I didn’t” (44).

In these beginning chapters, you get a sense of Camus’s philosophy. There is no meaning to life. It is what it is. Living in Algeria is no better or worse than living in Paris. But there is also this sense of heat and light that is experienced in Algeria—the sun beats down and the heat stifles—having dizzying effects on this man, as if it is fate pushing Meursault to action.

It turns out that this young man ends up killing another man—shooting him five times—on the beach, in the sun and heat. The scene is told emotionlessly. It’s just another event in this man’s life. Of course, he is arrested, tried, and sentenced to a public death by the guillotine. None of these moments seem to faze him much. It’s only when the chaplain comes that he shows any emotion at all.

But it isn’t because he is convicted unto repentance, but because he’s finally able to articulate his worldview clearly. He screamed at the priest trying to explain :

Every man alive was privileged; there was only one class of men, the privileged class. All alike would be condemned to die one day; his turn too, would come like the others’. And what difference could it make if, after being charged with murder, he were executed because he didn’t weep at his mothers funeral, since it all came to the same thing in the end? . . .What did it matter if Raymond was as much my pal as Celeste, who was a far worthier man? What did it matter if at this very moment Marie was kissing a new boy friend? As a condemned man himself, couldn’t he grasp what I mean by the dark wind blowing from my future?

In essence, everyone is going to die. The priest was as much a condemned man as Meursault. The dark wind of death blows from the future and will one day reach every single person, so what did it matter if it caught up with him through the guillotine or heart attack? The priest would die just as much as he would.

You may have heard the saying, “Get busy living or get busy dying.” Camus would say that one can’t truly live until they embrace that they will die. If that sounds absurd to you, congratulations. That’s what Camus believed. This life is absurd; the universe is absurd!—we believe it has meaning only to find out it does not. The absurd thing is, Camus would say, is that we must continue to live as if it does.

As we continue on in our series in Ecclesiastes, we find that Solomon sees the world much the same way as Camus. However, Camus goes from the absurd to despair. Solomon moves from absurd to delight. And that’s Solomon takes us this morning.

Solomon leads us on a journey of life that contains three scenes. The first scene is the scene of wisdom. The second is the scene of worthlessness. The final scene: weariness.

The Scene of Wisdom

The Scene of Worthlessness

The Scene of Weariness

The Scene of Wisdom

On the first leg of our journey, Solomon takes us back to the scene involving the benefits of wisdom.

Ecclesiastes 2:12–13 ESV

So I turned to consider wisdom and madness and folly. For what can the man do who comes after the king? Only what has already been done. Then I saw that there is more gain in wisdom than in folly, as there is more gain in light than in darkness.

Solomon’s question in verse 12 has to do with his progeny. Solomon has decided—since God has gifted him with divine wisdom—to see the world from both man’s wisdom and man’s folly. God allows Solomon to do it now so others after him won’t have to do it themselves. Anyone who tries to do as he does will come to the same understanding that he’s already come to.

What is that understanding? That wisdom is a good characteristic to have. It’s better to live in wisdom—even man’s wisdom—than in foolishness. To Solomon, and Scripture as a whole, living foolishly is the same as living in the dark. We all know the pain of walking around in darkness. We’ve all had to get up in the middle of the night, when no lights are on, and make our way through a room or house. Wisdom tells us—even then—to walk carefully and slowly. Only a fool rushes through a dark room.

I remember a few years ago when Frozone, our husky, was still pretty young. We went to my mom’s house and got there in the middle of the night. After a twelve-hour drive, Frozone had the zoomies. And when he entered the darkened house, he started zooming all over the place. What he didn’t know and apparently couldn’t see was the stairwell leading to the basement. In his zoomie exuberance, he found himself halfway down the stairs—stuck there in fear. Had the lights been on, he could have avoided the fall and the fear.

That’s the good of wisdom. Solomon was writing that wisdom can lessen the falls, the fears, the heartaches, and the headaches.

Camus would agree in his own way. Remember that Camus was a philosopher in his own right. And philosophy simply means a love of wisdom. He desires to enlighten his readers live in the midst of the absurdity in life. The sooner they understand the absurdity, the sooner they can combat it wisely.

In another work of Camus—The Myth of Sisyphus—Camus explains that “The absurd is lucid reason noting its limits.”

That’s Camus’s wisdom in a nutshell. The “absurd” is the feeling there is ultimate meaning when there is none. Accepting and recognizing that “truth” helps us to live in the moment rather than chasing after meaning that doesn’t exist. That’s the understanding that Sisyphus must come to. If you can’t remember your Greek Mythology, Sisyphus was punished by Zeus and the gods, having to roll a boulder up a hill only to have it roll back down as he reached the top. Thus, he did the same thing all day, every day. It was meaningless. It was vanity. It was absurd. And yet Camus was saying that if Sisyphus would embrace the absurdity—that there is no ultimate meaning even when it feels like there is—then he could actually find contentment in the labor itself. Meursault, sitting in prison awaiting the guillotine, ultimately comes to the same conclusion.

So it would seem that Solomon and Camus came to similar understandings about life. Solomon said that wisdom helps one avoid many of the falls of life while Camus taught that embracing the wisdom of the absurd helps one avoid the pitfalls of life.

The Scene of Worthlessness

But Solomon doesn’t allow us to dwell too much upon the scene of wisdom for long. He moves us along to the next scene—the scene of worthlessness.

Ecclesiastes 2:14–15 ESV

The wise person has his eyes in his head, but the fool walks in darkness. And yet I perceived that the same event happens to all of them. Then I said in my heart, “What happens to the fool will happen to me also. Why then have I been so very wise?” And I said in my heart that this also is vanity.

“Yes,” Solomon says, “being wise is helpful, but it’s not enough.” He wrote of “the same event” happening to both the foolish and the wise. That event that he was referring to is death. And if all we do is stop at death—that moment when our eyes cease to gaze at life “under the sun,” then we feel the weight of worthlessness.

One of my favorite poems was written by Emily Dickinson, “Because I Could Not Stop For Death.” It’s a short poem, but it begins with the same lines as the title:

Because I could not stop for Death,

He kindly stopped for me.

The Carriage held but just Ourselves—

And Immortality.

Dickinson was, in a sense, taking away the stigma of death and wrote about it nonchalantly. Death was inevitable. He would one day pull up his carriage and take each and every one of us.

That’s the sentiment of what Solomon was getting at as well. It did not matter how wise or foolish a person was. Death would kindly stop for each and every one of them. The end was the same.

So what difference does it make if one lives wisely or foolishly? They all end up experiencing the same event! At any moment Thanatos can snap his finger, and—just like Marvel’s Thanos—half the universe could be gone. Death makes no distinctions.

If the end is the same then living in wisdom is worthless.

That’s been the undoing of so many Christians. They experience deeply what Solomon experienced and they understand the logical quasi-conclusion that Solomon came to. What’s the point in living wisely, morally, godly—why miss out on all the fun and pleasure of this world—only to face the same end as those who got to experience all those pleasures?

You see, that’s Camus’s conclusion—not Solomon’s. Solomon almost gets there, but he doesn’t go all the way. Camus dives headfirst into the deep end of despair. And this philosophy is prevalent even in our day—some eighty years later.

One of my favorite children’s books is one I got when I graduated high school. It’s called, The Fall of Freddie the Leaf. It was written by Dr. Leo Buscaglia and it’s a book to help children understand death. It follows the life of a leaf named Freddie. And when it comes time for autumn, Daniel—Freddie’s mentor—has to explain to him what life is really all about.

“Then what has been the reason for all of this?” Freddie continued to question. “Why were we here at all if we only have to fall and die?”

Daniel answered in his matter-of-fact way, “It’s been about the sun and the moon. It’s been about the happy times together. It’s been about the shade and the old people and the children. It’s been about the colors in Fall. It’s been about seasons. Isn’t that enough?”

And even as an eighteen year old, I remember thinking, “No! That’s not enough!” Camus would say it is. Daniel has accepted the absurd of no greater meaning so that he finds meaning in the moment. As Meursault would say, “I have never been able really to regret anything in all my life. I’ve always been far too much absorbed in the present moment, or the immediate future” (127). It’s all about the moment; everything else—the past and future—are worthless, and so we ought not waste time thinking about them. You may have heard a similar phrase coming from Deepak Chopra, “The past is history, the future is a mystery, and this moment is a gift. That is why this moment is called 'the present.’” He is simply regurgitating a famous line from Buddha. And so we have Eastern spirituality meshing with Western philosophy. It sounds so inspiring (remember Russell’s “the seduction of eloquence”?) , and there is a kernel of truth to it, but it leaves us stuck in the absurdity of an indifferent universe, with eternity in our hearts and yet no purpose.

Yes, both see that we all will face the same end—even if in different ways, and both would agree that it seems like all that wise living—while helpful—in the ultimate scheme of life, is worthless. But Solomon would not arrive at despair like Camus did; but we’ll get to that momentarily.

The Scene of Weariness

Solomon moves us along from the scene of wisdom to the scene of worthlessness to the scene of weariness. After all, if the wisdom we’ve acquired is worthless, then would we not reach a point where we become weary of life in general?

Ecclesiastes 2:16–17 ESV

For of the wise as of the fool there is no enduring remembrance, seeing that in the days to come all will have been long forgotten. How the wise dies just like the fool! So I hated life, because what is done under the sun was grievous to me, for all is vanity and a striving after wind.

Again, as we saw with Bertrand Russell, all will eventually be forgotten. All the great moments of life will eventually be forgotten. You’ll be forgotten. I’ll be forgotten. So long as everything done is simply “under the sun.” If nothing will be remembered, then what is the point of trying to remember? What is the point of love? What is the point of any emotion, except loathing—loathing a life where everything is nothing?

If one is simply living life “under the sun,” doing for one’s self, one’s neighbor, one’s family—living in the temporary and not the eternal, then yes, life is wearisome. Life is absurd. As Camus wrote in Sisyphus, “He feels within him his longing for happiness and for reason. The absurd is born of this confrontation between the human need and the unreasonable silence of the world.” And so one comes to hate his own existence. Camus continued, “What is called a reason for living is also an excellent reason for dying.”

This was the conclusion of Meursault.

In his thoughts of his girlfriend Marie, we see, “Supposing she was dead, her memory would mean nothing; I couldn’t feel interest in a dead girl. This seemed to me quite normal; just as I realized people would soon forget me once I was dead” (144). As these thoughts consumed his mind he actually was excited for death. The only thing he was hoping is that a crowd filled with rage would be around for his execution.

Some of you have experienced life like Solomon. Remember that Solomon and Camus are not the same. Camus believed there is no God and so lived in that belief. He lived under the sun—the dizzying light and heat. Solomon knew better, but pushed that knowledge aside for the sake of God’s people. In God’s providence God allowed Solomon to do so and report what he found, so we would not need to live “under the sun.” He lived it so we wouldn’t have to, yet many Christians choose to waste much of their lives this way nonetheless. And they end up with the same conclusion that Solomon came to: “I hate my life. I’m wearied and grieved by who I’ve become and the life that I’ve lived. I’ve wasted it all—I’ve striven after the wind.”

Beloved, do not lose hope. There is more to life than what we see under the sun

Conclusion

Beloved, we’ve spent time with Camus and Solomon; so far, they seem to be saying the same thing, but I told you at the beginning they do not end with the same conclusion. They have taken us on a journey through scenes of wisdom, worthlessness, and weariness. They’ve been carpooling until now. But it’s here that they go their own way. Camus concludes that life can only be lived under the sun and thus finds life to be absurd, leading to despair. Solomon concludes that if life is lived under the sun then it is worthless and wearisome, but he saw his destination further up ahead. There is more to life than living under the sun. Because there is, we do not end with despair, but with delight.

Remember from a couple of weeks ago, I told you that Solomon’s conclusion doesn’t come until the last chapter of the book. Everything builds toward the last two verses, which state:

Ecclesiastes 12:13–14 ESV

The end of the matter; all has been heard. Fear God and keep his commandments, for this is the whole duty of man. For God will bring every deed into judgment, with every secret thing, whether good or evil.

The idea of fearing God is not to shrink in terror, but to love deeply and enjoy his presence. To fear God is to worship him—to delight in him and his law.

Solomon wrote that we would fear God and keep his commandments. Jesus would say something similar when he said that if we loved him, we will keep his commandments. Love and Fear—they sound like contradictions, but are simply paradoxes—seeming contradictions that actually work so well together.

What Solomon learned was that the emptiness of life lived under the sun—as if there is no God—actually can lead us to fulfillment, not by accepting the absurdity and fighting back in the fleeting moments, but by realizing we were created for something more. As C. S. Lewis wrote in Mere Christianity,

Most people, if they had really learned to look into their own hearts, would know that they do want, and want acutely, something that cannot be had in this world. There are all sorts of things in this world that offer to give it to you, but they never quite keep their promise. . . If I find in myself a desire which no experience in this world can satisfy, the most probable explanation is that I was made for another world.

Christ died so that there no longer needs to be life under the sun as if this world is all there is. Instead, as Paul wrote to the Ephesians all things—in heaven and on earth—are being united in Christ. There is forgiveness and redemption for the life lived that way. You only need to see your life for what it is—a feeble attempt to live as if there is no God, empty, loathsome, and without ultimate meaning—which has led you into sins against your Creator who loves you.

Receive his free gift of forgiveness and turn from the life and philosophy you have been living, and turn to God through the blood of Jesus shed for you. He died for our sins so we could be forgiven, and he was raised from the dead so we could be made right with God. Romans 5:1 “Therefore, since we have been justified by faith, we have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ.” And when we have peace with God, we can have peace in our souls. We then are in Christ—united with all things.

So let us not despair—because we do not live under the sun. We can delight in our Maker and in this world because we live in his Son, our Lord, Jesus Christ.

Prayer

Our Heavenly Father,

You are not indifferent to us; you love us with an everlasting love and have mercy upon our hurting souls. Strengthen us to see the world through Solomon’s eyes and not through the lens of Camus. Grant us see the destination of delighting in you when living in holiness and wisdom seems worthless and life is wearisome. In Jesus’s name, we pray. Amen.

As we’ve seen today, life under the sun leads to weariness and despair, but only a Holy God gives life meaning, purpose, and delight. Let’s worship Him now.