“Vanity of vanities, said the preacher, vanity of vanities; all is vanity.” (Ecclesiastes 1:2, LXX)

Last May, I voluntarily admitted myself to a psych ward after a suicide attempt left me questioning my place in this world. They had about five books available for patients, including a shoddy translation of the Bible. After a few days of being stabilized on medications, I picked it up and turned to Ecclesiastes. I had just survived an overdose; needless to say, I possessed quite a somber mindset. I found a slight sense of relief in knowing that the biblical authors were not exempt from the feelings I experienced at that time.

I felt that I had let myself down. Moreover, I felt that God had abandoned me. While in active psychosis, I experienced severe auditory hallucinations. Specifically, I heard the voice of God telling me that I needed to end my life. Earlier that year, after reading Amos and determining that the God of the Bible is a monster, I became an agnostic. Because I had rejected the God of Christianity, I carried the guilt of apostasy. This guilt, along with severe alcohol use and medication withdrawals, led me to believe that God was punishing me for rejecting him.

In the weeks and months following my attempt, I carried the burden of being a moral failure. I found consolation in Ecclesiastes’ message that human beings possess a strong moral standing, while the divine does not. In this post, I wish to survey the Ecclesiastical theodicy that, in many ways, saved my life.

All is Vanity: An Overview

The book of Ecclesiastes may be considered a long list of grievances its author holds concerning God, the world, and human life. At the core of Ecclesiastes, as with much of the ancient didactic wisdom literature (especially in the Bible), is the human experience of suffering. The author of Ecclesiastes, without a doubt, understands the impact suffering has on all breathing creatures; this pain, he understands, is vanity.

The book begins with the repeated use of the word vanity. The Hebrew word he employs, hebel, literally translates to “vapor.”¹ This term indicates that which “is lacking substance, ephemeral, without any result.”² The author does not refer to one singular item or belief, but that all or everything lacks substance. This opening phrase sets the tone for the remainder of the dialogue.

Theology as an Ancient Coping Skill

In antiquity, suffering humans did not have access to resources such as therapy or psychiatry. The field of psychology would not develop for millennia. But trauma is certainly as old as life itself, as is the belief in beings greater than ourselves. People needed a way to cope with suffering, and the greatest help available resided in the hands of the divine. To this day, belief in deities remains a coping strategy in times of hardship.

The picture I have painted in the preceding paragraph is exactly why the question of theodicy is so important. Those of us who believe in something(s) higher than us find it hard to rectify our suffering with their existence. It was no different for the ancient Israelites. To understand what these ancient texts mean, we must consider the framework of the authors’ psyches.

As one researcher says, “[T]here was a common tendency in Israel and Mesopotamia to understand human suffering and trauma in terms of divine punishment and human flourishing in terms of divine favor.”³ …or “both Israelite and Mesopotamian cultures operated within a worldview in which sin—whether disobedience to God/gods or failure to complete a religious ritual to the deities’ satisfaction—resulted in human suffering.”⁴

This concept is seemingly instinctual. We suffer, then we wonder why we are suffering. We ask questions such as, “What have we done to deserve this? Why is God doing this to me?” As I mentioned early on in this blog, such questions alone beg the problem of suffering. The idea that God inflicts suffering upon a person due to that person sinning is known as retributive theology. I think we can all acknowledge that this branch of theology does not provide a satisfactory resolution for the problem of suffering.

And neither does it for Qoheleth.

Retribution Theology Cannot Explain All Suffering

The book of Ecclesiastes is probably the least theological and most philosophical book in the Bible. The key belief behind Qoheleth’s monologue is, “Life is meaningless because actions fail to correspond with their consequences.”⁵ I think our modern translations are flawed in that meaningless carries an overwhelmingly pessimistic connotation. We all know that life is not meaningless. That life is a vapor, and thus it is fleeting, seems to fit better with the overall message of Ecclesiastes.

As I have heard the great biblical scholar Bart Ehrman explain in many debates on suffering, “vapor,” the literal transliteration of hebel in Ecclesiastes, means something that is here one moment and gone the next. That is life. We never know when our last day will be. We never know what tomorrow will bring. Life is not meaningless; our English Bibles do a great injustice to the original text with such translations. Life is a vapor—we need to enjoy it while it lasts.

We cannot live our lives believing what the church says. “For all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God” (Rom. 3:23). Yes, this verse is true; but it is not the end of the story. There is no need to spend each day worrying that our pasts sins will result in hardships. We need to accept that we are wrong, we sin, and we can still enjoy life. As Qoheleth observes to be true, “A person can do nothing better than to eat and drink and find satisfaction in their own toil. This too, I see, is from the hand of God” (Ecc. 2:24).

Coherence, Significance, and Purpose in Ecclesiastes

Ecclesiastes is certainly a grim book; however, it is also extremely hopeful. It is truthful in the sense that it acknowledges the pain and misery we face in life. But it also serves as the example of one who, seemingly hopeless, hopes to find the meaning of life. And in my honest opinion, Qoheleth achieved his goal.

We as humans are instinctively inclined to seek out the meaning of life with hopeful hearts. Everyone hopes to see the sun rise another day. It is basic human psychology. In our quest for the meaning of life, psychologists have determined a “threefold scheme comprised of coherence, significance, and purpose.”⁶ Qoheleth, even if indirectly, addresses each of these in Ecclesiastes.

Coherence

We all long for coherence. We become frustrated when life does not make sense; the righteous suffer and the evil receive blessings. This, truly, is meaningless. Being upset when life is illogical is only part of being human. We know that we cannot change this, but we hope that it will all work out in the end.

Significance

We all crave significance. Nobody wants to simply lie down in isolation until the day we pass on. We want to forgive our pasts, make the most of the present, and hope for a better future. It is without a doubt that death is evil, but also inevitable. We all have that same ultimate destiny (Ecc. 9:3) and we hope that when that day comes, we can look back and appreciate our achievements.

Purpose

Lastly, we desire purpose. Whether our goals are to have a great career, find the love of our lives, or provide hope to the hopeless, we desire to know that our efforts are not in vain. We want to know that, at the end of the day, we have done something to make the world a better place. This, too, is not meaningless; it is being human.

Conclusion

Life is fleeting. Qoheleth knew this to be true, and you and I know it to be true. Ultimately, we desire to find the meaning of life through coherence, significance, and purpose. There is no sense in regretting the past, hating the present, and dreading the future. Of those three, the only two that are certain are the past and present. Tomorrow is never guaranteed.

Live each moment like it is your last. Do not waste your time beating yourself up over not going to church that one Sunday, or not making a donation to United Way (it’s only going to their CEO, anyway). We sin. Christian or not, it is important that we correct our ways of wrongdoing, but we cannot forget that life is only a vapor. It is here today, gone tomorrow. We must make it count.

1. Fox, Michael V. “Ancient Near Eastern Wisdom Literature (Didactic).” Religion Compass 5, no. 1 (2011): 6, https://doi.org/10.1111/j.1749-8171.2010.00251.x

2. Murphy, Roland E.. Ecclesiastes, Volume 23A. Grand Rapids: HarperCollins Christian Publishing, 2015, 88.

3. Meek, Russell L. and Elizabeth Mehlman. “Resilience through Disclosure and Meaning Making in Qoheleth and the Babylonian Theodicy.” Journal for the Study of the Old Testament 47, no. 3 (2023): 292. https://doi.org/10.1177/03090892221149047

4. Ibid.

5. Keefer, Arthur. “The Meaning of Life in Ecclesiastes: Coherence, Purpose, and Significance from a Psychological Perspective.” Harvard Theological Review 112, no. 4 (2019): 453. Gale In Context: Biography (accessed June 23, 2024). https://link.gale.com/apps/doc/A603404458/BIC?u=vic_liberty&sid=summon&xid=605c1299.

6. Ibid., 450.

“When you have a calling to help people, your first patient must be yourself.” Last May, after I finally reached my breaking point and called the suicide hotline, I checked into a crisis stabilization unit. While in the waiting room, one of the crisis counselors who transported me spoke these words. That one sentence awakened my light unseen. 

I held on to that tiny, seemingly unperceived glimmer of hope, believing it to be the final scrap of good in a wasted life. Even beyond my stabilization, I questioned the purpose of my place on this earth. Was I just lucky that all my attempts had failed? Was God making me live out hell on earth? Or did my escape from rock bottom even mean anything at all? Now, here I am, nearly a year later. And I am ready to tell my story. 

Over the last year, I have hinted at bits and pieces of my story. But until now, I have not felt comfortable discussing such matters in detail. Even still, there are parts of my life, specifically my childhood, that I am not yet ready to describe. I wanted to create a new category of posts where I reflect on my life. How I have—and have not—lived by the Logos. But most importantly, how I have found hope. 

In November, I started working as a behavioral health technician for a residential mental health facility. Given my history with both substance abuse and mental health, I figured I would at least try it out. Daily, I encounter people who are going through what I have escaped. I take pride in the fact that my story has given hope to quite a few people. Why stop there? 

One year ago, at this very moment, you could have told me there would be hope for me. I might have verbally agreed with you, but inside, I would have never believed it. I was lost. I was hopeless. I was an absolute trainwreck. I maintained that there was no purpose in living. I believed my life was over. And oddly enough, that the preceding sentence still holds a degree of truth. My life was over. My life of walking in darkness was nearing its end. In seeking to end my life, I actually began it. 

Childhood 

I am going to keep this section as brief as possible. I would ignore it entirely, but I must draw some details to explain where I come from fully. 

I was born on April 24th, 2000, at 7:13 PM, weighing 7 pounds and 13 ounces. I was the tenth and final child my mother would bring into this world. She was 45 at the time. She had already birthed nine children. She had two miscarriages prior to my birth. The odds of me being born without Down syndrome or major birth defects were slim to none. Her doctor, a Christian man, encouraged her to get an abortion. She refused. 

I have eleven siblings. Six years after my birth, my mother adopted my younger brother, Cameron. We were all homeschooled. We went to church every Sunday and Wednesday. For the first nine years of my life, we attended a large Southern Baptist Church. We left once the pastor got caught sleeping with his secretary (big surprise—not). 

All of us children participated in extracurricular activities outside of church. My sisters did karate or ballet. My brothers played baseball and football. As a child, I suffered from asthma. This condition limited me to participating in certain activities. About the time we left the Baptist church, I joined Boy Scouts. 

Also, around the same time, I was struggling with weight. My family and friends frequently ridiculed me for being a “fat boy.” Finally, much to my “father’s” disdain, my mother signed me up for the local swim team. My mother required me to join the team so that 1) I could participate in a sport that would not worsen my asthma and 2) I would lose weight. For the first two years, I did not find much enjoyment in it. 

Several years later, when I had a lot of aggression built up, swimming became my avenue for releasing such anger. I developed a sincere appreciation for the sport and quickly became one of the team’s top swimmers. It is a paramount part of my life that cannot go unmentioned. Much of my worldview comes from what I call the “philosophy of swimming.” I will discuss this more in later posts. 

Addiction 

I cannot paint an overview of my life without touching on one of the most heartbreaking, yet definitive traits of mine: my addictive personality. The same year I joined the swim team, I smoked my first cigarette. I smoked weed for the first time. I had my first taste of alcohol. Each of these activities disgusted me. But it was around then that I looked at porn for the first time. Like the others, it disgusted me at first… then it became all I could do. 

I kept my porn addiction a secret for many years. Although I managed to kick it at 18, it is something that I find much harder to discuss than my addiction to alcohol. My addictive personality truly began when I became hooked on pornography. Ten years later, I would check into rehab for alcohol and weed addiction. Within those ten years, my addictions slowly evolved. I picked up drinking and smoking regularly at the age of fourteen, and lost control after my mom’s death.

Now, I was not raised in an environment where the disease of addiction was proactively discussed. I was raised in a religious atmosphere. Addiction was simply a myth; it was the disease of choice that was impressed upon my mind. It was a question of faith. The alcoholics and addicts of this world simply did not have the right relationship with Jesus. They could not distinguish good from evil. Because in the mind of a fundamentalist or evangelical, everything is black and white. 

My “father” is an alcoholic. My mother struggled with drug dependence in high school and college. And for those who know anything at all about addiction, it is largely genetic. Had we had discussions about addiction, things might have played out differently. Had I not been under the impression that addicts burn in hell, I might have known how to better handle the situation if and when it came up. 

But mainstream Christianity is the primary poison in my life. It stripped me down into thinking that I would never be good enough. That if I ever so much as touched a drop of alcohol, I would have a miserable life and be spiritually tormented after death. The disease of religion ruined my life. Sadly, it would not be for many years that I would learn I could be spiritual without being religious. That I would not go to hell if I stopped going to church. The legalistic nature of religion, and Christianity in particular, has made my journey much darker. 

Mental Health and Suicide 

I would not be formally diagnosed with Major Depressive Disorder until 2020. Therapy was never encouraged growing up. Psychology went against the grain of religion and, therefore, it was kept from me. But I struggled with this disease long before my diagnosis. I mentioned earlier that I am not ready to discuss my childhood. Well, that is because there is a lot of repressed trauma from that time. There is a lot that I never got to work through. And each day, even now, it haunts me. 

It is no secret that people misunderstand MDD. There is a nasty stigma surrounding it in the United States. Let me tell you that it is not just feeling sad. And it is definitely not feeling this way for no reason. It is devastating. Unfortunately, there is no age limit for struggling with depression. I know now that I struggled with it as a child. But, again, these are discussions that were forbidden at home. 

The scariest part of it all is that I have struggled with being suicidal for the greater part of my life. I cannot recall exactly when this feeling began, but I remember my first attempt. I was eleven years old. Read that again. Eleven years old and attempting to take my life. I tried swallowing a bottle of airsoft bullets. Obviously, it did not work. And that was my cross to bear. 

It was my cross to bear because, once again, we have an issue of stigma. As if the stigma surrounding addiction, mental health, and suicide is not bad enough worldwide, it is far worse in the Deep South. And especially in the church. I recall having a terrible youth pastor at this time. He taught that suicide is an unforgivable sin. Unforgivable because once it is done there is no repenting. 

The same pastor caused a lot of unnecessary traumata. Suicide would get me sent straight to hell in a handbasket. I remember the same pastor teaching that drug and alcohol addictions are treatable, but porn addiction is uncurable. And, of course, porn addiction is unforgivable. No matter what vice I allowed to define me, the only residence beyond my grave would be a fiery chamber of torture. And it would take a miracle to save me from it. 

“Losing” my Faith 

The most important part of my story lies not within the abuse, the attempts, or the addictions. It lies within my recovery. The starkest blow to my life came at the age of eighteen. That May, I had just become an adult. I had just graduated high school with an Associate of Art from my dream college. I had just been hired as a swim coach. I was doing well at my full-time job. I met who I believed to be the woman of my dreams. And yet, that very month, my mother was diagnosed with stage four liver cancer. 

From the moment I received the news, I knew I would never be the same. I started drinking more. I stopped eating normally. I lost well over 20 pounds, my hair began to fall out, and no matter what I did, I could not feel normal. At the time, I was a devout Christian. Nothing was more important to me than faith and my involvement with the church. I started my dream program, studying political science, and quickly lost interest. 

I was ready to give up on my dreams and accept defeat. I was prepared to make a career out of my grocery store job. I was determined to ditch school completely. But when I informed my sick mother of my intentions, I knew that it would not work. Here lay a woman who had survived it all and now faced an uphill battle against a putrid disease. I could not let her down. She poured 18 years of her life into educating me, and I needed to make that count. 

After much thought and prayer, I decided I would stay in school. I began to question how God could let this happen to me. I wondered how God could allow this woman, a saint, to be stricken with such an awful disease. And when I asked my religious leaders about the problem of suffering, I did not receive satisfactory answers. I decided to pursue biblical theology. I already had issues with the global church, despite my devotion to it. Now, it was time to test the waters. 

After losing my mother and battling my own diseases and addictions, I reached my conclusion. I found that religion, the thing I held onto through it all, was actually poisoning me. I had been lied to my entire life. Not only was I lied to, but I recognized that millions of people are lied to every week by the church. The church has created far more suffering than it has alleviated. And that, in and of itself, is a problem. 

I needed to recuse myself from religion. I needed to rid myself of the poison that flooded my veins for so long. Believe me, I did not want to leave. I did not suddenly have a great “a-ha!” moment and realize religion was toxic. It developed slowly over time, the more I began to understand and interpret the Bible. And now here I am. I am spiritual, not religious. And I pride myself on that. 

Now 

I have survived abuse. I have survived being bullied. I have survived addiction. I have survived grief and loss. I have survived psychosis. I have survived trauma. I survived suicide. I have survived and lived to tell my story. Now here I am, and I am doing it. 

A year ago, at this very moment, my struggles were cumulating into my own devastation. And I believed that no matter what I did, I would never find hope. But the story changed. Not only do I have hope, but I have the will to live. I am living a life I once dreamed about. I do not have everything I ever wanted, but I have found something I could not find at home, at church, or even in swimming: hope. 

I wake up each day and serve as a testament to the hope of recovery for others. I get to share my story and touch the lives of others. If you had told me I would be doing this a year ago right now, I would never believe you. But I made it here. And now, I hope you will enjoy it as I delve deeper into my story and psychology. I hope you will understand where I come from when I write critically about the church and organized religion. More importantly, I hope that you will see the hope that I have found. 

My life is not over. My light is no longer unseen. And I am only just getting started.