Ecclesiastes is a difficult book. Still, in my early
twenties I kept coming back to it despite its apparent bleakness — or
perhaps because of it. Its relentlessly frank take on the unhappy business of
living in a fallen world was (and remains) refreshing, not in comparison to the
rest of scripture, I now realize, but set against the bland and near-insensate
Churchian conformity of post-hippie ’70s evangelicalism in which I was
inadvertently immersed as a teen, and which had regrettably permeated my
understanding of most of the New Testament and deadened my enthusiasm for its
truths.
Happily, nobody in that crowd taught Ecclesiastes the way they taught Ephesians. Perhaps they forgot it was there.













