Ecclesiastes 6 brings us face-to-face with one of the central themes of the book: the tension between having much and still lacking peace. It continues the quiet, searching voice we’ve heard in earlier chapters, one that doesn’t rush toward simple conclusions. Instead, it lingers in the complexity of human experience and names the frustrations that so many carry but rarely speak aloud.
The chapter opens by describing a situation that at first seems ideal. A person receives everything they could want from God—riches, wealth, honor. Nothing is withheld. From the outside, it looks like a life of abundance and blessing. Yet there’s a turn that changes everything: the person is not given the power to enjoy it. Someone else enjoys the fruits of their labor instead. This is called an evil under the sun, and it’s deeply troubling because it reveals how hollow success can be when it isn’t paired with the ability to find joy.
This condition—having so much but not being able to enjoy it—feels especially familiar in our time. We can be surrounded by things and still feel empty. The outward signs of success do not guarantee inward peace. Ecclesiastes 6 challenges the idea that wealth or status can fulfill us. Even when someone has all the things they hoped for, their heart may still be restless, their soul still unsatisfied. What’s worse is that this person may never truly get to live the life they seemed to have. It may be someone else entirely who steps into their place and enjoys the results of their effort. That ache of being close to something yet unable to reach it is one of the most difficult sorrows to carry.
The chapter goes even further. It describes a man who fathers a hundred children and lives many years—two things highly valued in the ancient world. But if his soul is not filled with good and he has no proper burial, the Preacher says that a stillborn child is better off than he is. That’s not a cold or cruel statement. It’s a sorrowful reflection on the deep disappointment that can haunt a long life lived without peace or purpose. The stillborn child, though never knowing the light of day, is spared the weariness of chasing meaning without ever finding it. The image is tender and tragic, not meant to diminish the value of life but to highlight how hard it can be when life is full of days but empty of joy.
We are reminded again how fleeting our pursuits can be. Even if someone lives for two thousand years, the question still lingers: do they truly enjoy life? Or does the same end await them as awaits everyone else? No matter how long or full a life may appear, if it lacks rest for the soul, it leaves behind a trail of quiet sorrow. The Preacher seems to be telling us that the quantity of our days matters less than the quality of our contentment. It is not enough just to exist or to gather, but to actually taste the goodness of what we’ve been given.
The chapter continues by acknowledging that all human effort—everything we do under the sun—is often driven by appetite, and yet that appetite is never truly filled. “All the labor of man is for his mouth, and yet the appetite is not filled.” We work, we strive, we build, we dream, but still, we hunger. Our needs stretch out in front of us like a path that never ends. And the wise person doesn’t escape this entirely either. Ecclesiastes 6 asks, what advantage does the wise have over the fool in this regard? And what benefit does the poor man gain by knowing how to conduct himself wisely in life? These questions don’t offer easy answers, but they urge us to think carefully. Sometimes, having understanding doesn’t guarantee fulfillment either.
There is a quiet warning in the line that says, “Better is the sight of the eyes than the wandering of the desire.” This suggests that being content with what we can see and touch—what is present and real—is better than always chasing after more. The wandering desire takes us far from home. It fuels the restlessness that keeps us unsatisfied, even when we have enough. When we chase after illusions or future dreams at the cost of present peace, we find ourselves lost in the very pursuit we thought would save us. It is another form of vanity, another way to chase the wind.
The closing verses of the chapter turn our thoughts toward the limits of human knowledge and power. Whatever has come to be, its name has already been given, and it is known what man is. There is a tone of resignation here, but also of reverence. We are not in control of as much as we like to believe. We cannot contend with the one who is mightier than we are. The more words increase, the more vanity grows. And in the end, what is the use of it all? The final line presses the question once more: “For who knows what is good for man in life, all the days of his vain life which he spends like a shadow?” We live like a passing shadow, here for a moment and then gone. And who can tell us what will be after us under the sun?
This chapter doesn’t dismiss the search for meaning—it joins us in it. It speaks not from cynicism but from honesty. And it urges us to be wary of the lies we often tell ourselves: that more will satisfy, that time will answer every question, that effort alone will bring peace. Instead, it invites us into a quieter posture, one where we acknowledge our limitations, value what is before us, and understand that joy is not always found in having more, but in being present with what we already hold.
Psalm 131 offers a fitting companion: “Surely I have stilled and quieted my soul, like a weaned child with his mother.” And Jesus' words in Luke 12:15 echo this same truth: “A man’s life doesn’t consist of the abundance of the things which he possesses.” Ecclesiastes 6 leads us gently toward this wisdom, teaching us to look not only at what we have, but how we live—and whether we have found rest for our souls amidst the striving.