Fannin Terrace Baptist Church
Jan, 4 2025
  • Glorious Day
  • Leaning On The Everlasting Arms
  • Holy Forever
  • The Blood

      • Ecclesiastes 1:1-4CSB

      • Ecclesiastes 1:5-7CSB

      • Ecclesiastes 1:8-10CSB

      • Ecclesiastes 1:11-13CSB

      • Ecclesiastes 1:14CSB

  • I want to begin this morning with a confession.
    I’m still new here. And with any new role, there’s a quiet pressure that comes with it. You may not say it out loud, but you feel it. The pressure to prove your worth. To demonstrate value. To show—preferably in measurable, visible ways—that you belong.
    And if I’m honest, I feel that too.
    There’s a part of me that wants to point to things and say, “See? This matters. I matter.” Numbers. Momentum. Productivity. Progress. Attendance. If there were a spiritual Fitbit for proving yourself, I’d probably be closing my rings.
    Now, those things aren’t bad. Some of them are even good. But I’ve noticed how easily they can begin to carry more weight than they should—how subtly they can slide from being fruit into being proof.
    And the troubling thing is this: even when you hit the mark—even when the boxes are checked and the goals are met—it doesn’t always quiet the soul, does it?
    Sometimes…it just raises the bar.
    (brief pause)
    I don’t think that struggle is unique to pastors. I think it’s human. Especially in a place like this. We live in a culture—and in a city—that values hard work, results, and visible progress. We admire grit. We respect effort. We celebrate success.
    But somewhere underneath all of that, there’s often a quieter question humming in the background: “Is this enough?”
    That question—Is this enough?—isn’t the voice of laziness. It’s not the voice of ingratitude. It’s the voice of longing.
    And longing itself is not the problem.
    The problem is that we are very good at attaching that longing to things that were never meant to carry it.
    Productivity. Possessions. Platform. Recognition. Even good things—work, family, ministry, legacy—can quietly become the place where we expect meaning to settle in and stay.
    But it doesn’t. It never quite does.
    And here’s the tension I want us to sit with this morning:

    Why doesn’t progress produce peace? Why doesn’t achievement quiet the soul?

    We tend to assume the answer is more. More effort. More success. More clarity. More recognition.
    But what if the problem isn’t that we haven’t chased hard enough—what if the problem is that we’re chasing the wrong thing?
    (pause)
    That question is not new. It’s ancient.
    And it’s exactly where the book of Ecclesiastes begins.
    Ecclesiastes is not a book that rushes to answers—and this series won’t either.
    It doesn’t begin with optimism or resolution.
    It begins with honesty.
    It gives voice to the frustration many of us feel but rarely articulate. It names the exhaustion underneath our striving.
    If you’ll trust this book—and trust me into it—it will expose not that our longing is wrong, but that its direction has been hijacked.
    So let’s listen carefully this morning—not defensively, not hurriedly—but honestly.

    Motion Without Meaning

    Let’s hear the words of the Teacher.
    Ecclesiastes 1:2 “Absolute futility,” says the Teacher. Absolute futility. Everything is futile.”
    In the CSB it reads ‘absolute futility’; your translation may say ‘vanity.’ The Hebrew word is hevel.
    It doesn’t mean “worthless” the way we often hear it. It means vapor. Breath. Mist.
    Something that’s real—but impossible to hold.
    The Teacher isn’t saying life doesn’t matter. He’s saying that when we try to grasp meaning through what is merely under the sun, it slips through our fingers every time.
    Then he asks a haunting question:
    Ecclesiastes 1:3 “What does a person gain for all his efforts that he labors at under the sun?”
    Notice the question is not, “Is there effort?” There clearly is. The question is, “What’s left over?”
    What endures? What actually remains?
    To help us feel the weight of that question, the Teacher points us to the world around us.
    Ecclesiastes 1:4 “A generation goes and a generation comes, but the earth remains forever.”
    People come and go. Booms rise and fall. Careers rise and fall. Names are remembered… for a while. But the world keeps turning, largely indifferent to our striving.
    Then he turns to nature:
    Ecclesiastes 1:5 “The sun rises and the sun sets; panting, it hurries back to the place where it rises.”
    The sun is faithful. Predictable. Tireless. But it never arrives. It just repeats.
    Ecclesiastes 1:6 “Gusting to the south, turning to the north, turning, turning, goes the wind, and the wind returns in its cycles.”
    Motion everywhere. Progress nowhere.
    Ecclesiastes 1:7 “All the streams flow to the sea, yet the sea is never full; to the place where the streams flow, there they flow again.”
    Here’s the picture: Constant movement. Constant effort. Constant output. And yet—never satisfied.
    The Teacher is describing a world that is endlessly busy but fundamentally unresolved.
    And if we’re honest, that feels familiar.
    We live in a culture of motion. Calendars full. Inboxes full. Minds full.
    We pride ourselves on productivity, on staying busy, on moving forward.
    But here’s the unsettling truth Ecclesiastes exposes:

    Movement is not the same thing as meaning.

    You can be active and still be empty.
    You can be productive and still be restless.
    You can be advancing and still be lost.
    The Teacher is not condemning work.
    He’s not attacking ambition.
    He’s revealing the limits of what human effort can accomplish when it’s asked to do more than it was designed to do.
    Work can build a life. But it cannot give a life ultimate meaning.
    Achievement can create comfort. But it cannot create peace.
    And when we ask our work, our success, our progress to answer the deeper questions of the soul—Who am I? Do I matter? Will this last?—they eventually fail us.
    Not because they are evil. But because they are finite.
    Here’s the prophetic edge Ecclesiastes presses on us:
    If meaning rests on what we produce, then meaning disappears when production slows, shifts, or stops.
    And that’s why striving alone always exhausts us. It was never meant to carry the weight of our identity.
    The Teacher is holding up a mirror and saying: “This is what life looks like when you search for ultimate significance under the sun.”
    It’s motion without meaning. Effort without rest. A life spent chasing something that never quite settles.
    And the question Ecclesiastes forces us to face is not, “Are you working hard?” The question is:

    What are you expecting your work to give you?

    (brief pause)
    Here’s the second thing Ecclesiastes shows us…

    Knowing More Still Isn’t Enough

    After showing us a world full of motion without meaning, the Teacher turns from nature to the inner life—from what we do to what we know.
    Ecclesiastes 1:8 “All things are wearisome, more than anyone can say. The eye is not satisfied by seeing or the ear filled with hearing.”
    This is not the weariness of laziness. This is the weariness of overexposure.
    Seeing more. Hearing more. Knowing more. And still not being satisfied.
    Ecclesiastes is naming something we know well but rarely stop to acknowledge: information does not equal fulfillment.
    We tend to assume that if we could just understand more—if we had more insight, more clarity, more explanation—then we would finally feel settled. But Ecclesiastes tells us that knowledge, by itself, never quiets the soul.
    The eye keeps scanning. The ear keeps listening. The mind keeps processing.
    And yet something remains unresolved.
    Then the Teacher delivers one of the most deflating statements in all of Scripture:
    Ecclesiastes 1:9 “What has been is what will be, and what has been done is what will be done; there is nothing new under the sun.”
    That line lands like a thud.
    Because we live on the promise of new.
    New technology. New opportunities. New solutions. New phases of life that we assume will finally bring contentment.
    But the Teacher isn’t denying progress. He’s denying novelty’s ability to save us.
    Human nature hasn’t changed. The longings of the heart haven’t changed. The ache for meaning hasn’t changed.
    Our tools may be more advanced, but the questions remain stubbornly the same.
    And then the Teacher presses further:
    Ecclesiastes 1:10 “Can one say about anything, ‘Look, this is new?’ It has already existed in the ages before us.”
    What we call “new” is often just a recycled promise wearing modern clothes.
    Different technology. Same restlessness.
    Different platform. Same hunger to be seen.
    Different metrics. Same fear of being insignificant.
    The Teacher isn’t being cynical—he’s being realistic. He’s stripping away the illusion that the next discovery, the next breakthrough, or the next season of life will finally deliver what the last one did not.
    Then comes perhaps the most sobering line in this section: Ecclesiastes 1:11 “There is no remembrance of those who came before; and of those who will come after there will also be no remembrance by those who follow them.”
    Here the Teacher touches the nerve we rarely like to press: the desire to be remembered.
    We want our lives to count. We want our work to matter beyond us. We want to leave a mark.
    But Ecclesiastes tells the truth: memory fades. Even the most celebrated achievements eventually pass from view.
    And that’s not meant to crush us—it’s meant to free us from false expectations.
    Here’s the hard truth Ecclesiastes forces us to confront:

    If meaning depends on being remembered, it will always be fragile.

    Because memory is not permanent. Recognition is not lasting. Legacy is not as secure as we think.
    And when knowledge, novelty, and remembrance are asked to carry the weight of significance, they eventually buckle under it.
    The Teacher is gently but firmly removing our escape routes.
    Work won’t do it.
    Progress won’t do it.
    Knowledge won’t do it.
    Being remembered won’t do it.
    Not because those things are bad—but because they are insufficient.
    And Ecclesiastes is not mocking our longing here.
    It’s honoring it by telling us the truth.

    The ache to matter is not wrong. But it cannot be satisfied by what is merely under the sun.

    (brief pause)
    Here’s the third truth God is showing us…

    Achievement Cannot Bear the Weight of Meaning

    Up to this point, the Teacher has been observing the world around him. Now, he turns inward.
    Ecclesiastes 1:12 “I, the Teacher, have been king over Israel in Jerusalem.”
    This matters.
    The Teacher is not speaking as a cynic on the sidelines. He is not embittered by failure. He is speaking as someone who has succeeded.
    He had authority. He had resources. He had access.
    If anyone should have been able to extract meaning from life under the sun, it was him.
    Then he tells us what he did with all of that advantage:
    Ecclesiastes 1:13a “I applied my mind to examine and explore through wisdom all that is done under heaven.”
    That phrase—“I applied my mind”—is important. This wasn’t casual curiosity. This was intentional pursuit.
    The Teacher went all in.
    He studied. He analyzed. He explored the depths of human wisdom and experience.
    And what did he discover?
    Ecclesiastes 1:13b “God has given people this miserable task to keep them occupied.”
    That line can sound harsh if we rush past it.
    The Teacher is not saying that God is cruel. He is saying that life under the sun has limits God has intentionally placed there.
    There are questions human effort cannot answer. There are longings human wisdom cannot satisfy.
    And those limits are not accidents.
    Then he delivers his conclusion:
    Ecclesiastes 1:14 “I have seen all the things that are done under the sun and have found everything to be futile, a pursuit of the wind.”
    Again—futile. Hevel. Vapor.
    And now the image sharpens: “a striving after wind.”
    You can feel the wind. You can chase it. But you cannot capture it.
    The Teacher is not condemning effort. He’s describing misdirected effort.
    Here’s what Ecclesiastes is pressing on us:

    Even the best version of human achievement cannot produce ultimate meaning.

    Not because it lacks excellence. But because it lacks permanence.
    This is where many of us get uncomfortable.
    Because we don’t just work—we identify with our work. We don’t just achieve—we attach our worth to achievement.
    And the Teacher tells us plainly: that weight will crush whatever you place it on.
    When achievement becomes identity, rest becomes impossible.
    When success becomes meaning, enough is never enough.
    And when wisdom itself becomes the answer, disillusionment is inevitable.
    There’s a line in this passage that’s easy to miss but incredibly important. Ecclesiastes 1:13 says this is a task that “God has given.”
    That means the frustration the Teacher describes is not random.
    It’s revelatory.
    God has designed life under the sun to be insufficient as a final source of meaning—so that we would stop demanding from creation what only the Creator can give.
    The Teacher is not leading us into a belief that all of life is meaningless. He’s leading us toward clarity.
    And here’s the clarity:

    The longing to matter is good. But it cannot be satisfied by what we accomplish, accumulate, or achieve.

    That longing points beyond us. Beyond our work. Beyond our wisdom.
    Ecclesiastes does not yet tell us where that longing will finally rest—but it refuses to let us lie to ourselves about where it will not.
    And that refusal is grace.
    Because before meaning can be received, false meanings must be released.
    Before rest can be found, striving must be named.
    And before we can hear the invitation of God clearly, we must stop chasing the wind.
    (brief pause)
    If Ecclesiastes is doing its work, then by now this message should feel a little uncomfortable—not because it’s harsh, but because it’s honest.
    The Teacher has not accused us of doing bad things. He has exposed what happens when good things are asked to do too much.
    So before we rush toward answers, Ecclesiastes invites us to slow down and ask better questions.
    Not abstract questions. Personal ones.
    Here’s the first:

    What are you quietly asking to make your life feel meaningful?

    Not what should matter. Not what you’d say out loud.
    What actually carries weight in your heart?
    For some, it’s productivity—being useful, needed, indispensable.
    For others, it’s possession—stability, comfort, security.
    For others, it’s platform—being known, respected, influential, remembered.
    And here’s the subtle danger: Those pursuits don’t announce themselves as idols.
    They wear respectable clothes. They sound responsible. They even feel faithful at times.
    But Ecclesiastes presses us to ask a second question:

    What happens to your sense of worth when that thing is threatened?

    When productivity slows.
    When the results don’t come.
    When the season changes.
    When recognition fades.
    When the metrics don’t move.
    If your peace evaporates when that thing wobbles, Ecclesiastes would gently suggest it may be carrying more weight than it was meant to bear.
    And this is where we need to hear the Teacher clearly.
    Ecclesiastes is not telling you to stop working. It’s not telling you to stop caring. It’s not telling you to abandon effort or excellence.
    It’s telling you this:

    Good longings, misplaced directions.

    That’s the bottom line.
    The longing to matter is good.
    The longing for significance is not a flaw.
    The ache you feel is not a failure of faith.
    But when that longing is directed under the sun—toward work, success, knowledge, recognition—it will always leave you chasing the wind.
    And the reason this matters so deeply is because misplaced longing doesn’t just exhaust us.
    It quietly reshapes us.
    It trains us to live anxious lives.
    It conditions us to measure ourselves constantly.
    It makes rest feel irresponsible and stillness feel unsafe.
    So the application today is not to fix anything.
    It’s to tell the truth. To stop. To name it. To bring it into the light.
    To name—before God—what you’ve been asking to give you meaning.
    And to hear Ecclesiastes say, without condemnation and without compromise: That weight is too heavy for that thing to carry.
    (brief pause)
    Now, at this point, some of us might be tempted to think Ecclesiastes is bleak.
    But it’s not. It’s merciful.
    Because God does not expose false hopes in order to shame us—he exposes them in order to free us.
    Think about it this way: If you never name what cannot satisfy you, you will keep running harder, faster, longer—convinced the problem is effort rather than direction.
    Ecclesiastes interrupts that cycle. It tells the truth early so that we don’t have to learn it late.
    And notice this: the Teacher does not mock human striving. He dignifies it by taking it seriously.
    He says, “I applied my mind.” He went all the way in. Which means when he tells us it didn’t work, we should listen.
    Here’s the hopeful edge hidden inside Ecclesiastes:
    If meaning cannot be manufactured under the sun, then it must be received from beyond it.
    But Ecclesiastes is wise enough not to rush us there yet.
    Because before we can receive meaning as a gift, we must stop demanding it as a wage.
    Before grace can feel like grace, performance has to loosen its grip.
    And before our lives can be reoriented, our false centers must be exposed.
    That’s why this book begins with honesty rather than answers.
    And that’s why this message does not end with resolution.
    But hear this: we are being invited—not into despair—but into dependence.
    Into the humility of admitting:
    “I was never meant to carry this alone.”
    “I was never meant to produce my own worth.”
    “I was never meant to chase the wind.”
    This is not the end of the story.
    But it is the end of pretending.
    So what do we do with a message like this?
    Not what we should decide—but how we should respond.
    Here’s what I want to ask of you this morning.
    Not action steps. Not commitments. Not promises.
    Just posture.
    The posture Ecclesiastes invites is reflective honesty before God.
    So here’s the action:
    This week, resist the urge to fix the tension too quickly.
    Sit with these questions:
    What am I chasing right now?
    What do I secretly believe will make me feel like I matter?
    How is that pursuit shaping my pace, my rest, my relationships?
    And when you feel the discomfort of those questions, don’t numb it. Don’t spiritualize it. Bring it to God.
    Because the goal is not self-awareness for its own sake.
    The goal is reorientation.
    Let me say it again—this is what we carry with us:

    Good longings, misplaced directions.

    This week, don’t try to redirect everything. Just start by noticing.
    Notice where your longing goes when you’re tired. Notice what disappoints you most deeply. Notice what feels devastating to lose.
    Those are not places of shame. They are places of invitation.
    And as we close, I want to be very clear about the tone of our response.
    We are not rushing to answers today. We are not forcing resolution. We are making room for truth.
    So as we respond in song, let this be a moment of quiet honesty.
    No pressure to sing loudly.
    No pressure to feel settled.
    No pressure to walk away fixed.
    Just the freedom to stop chasing the wind—and to admit, for the first time, that you were made for something more.
    (transition to music)
Fannin Terrace Baptist Church
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