Finding purpose in the mundane

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Imagine you are a citizen of ancient Jerusalem. It is around 945 BC. For the past thirty years, life in Israel has been exceptionally good. The nation is at peace. Prosperity abounds. Business thrives, and there is plenty of food. All things considered, life feels secure and satisfying.

However, you have noticed a few troubling changes in recent years. While Israel remains devoted to Yahweh, the one true God, new altars and idols have begun to appear around the city. Pagan worship is slowly creeping in. Still, the temple stands as a glorious centerpiece of worship, and for the most part, things seem to be going well. It feels as though God is pleased with his people.

One day, as you go about your usual routine, the sound of shofars pierces the air. You pause, wondering what it could mean. It is not the time for sacrifices at the temple, so the sound must be coming from the king’s palace. The king is summoning the people for an announcement. This is not entirely unusual. In the past, he has called similar assemblies to share good news, such as a new peace treaty or a profitable trade deal. Another announcement? Great! you think as you join the crowd heading to the palace.

But when you arrive, something feels different—off. There is none of the usual fanfare. No musicians play. No entertainers perform. The people are simply gathered, murmuring in confusion, waiting under the blazing sun. The wait drags on, and the atmosphere grows tense. Finally, the king emerges, but the sight of him sends a ripple of unease through the crowd.

The king, a tall and dignified man, typically carries himself with confidence—his chest out and his chin high. Today, though, he appears broken. His shoulders slump, and he stares at the ground as he shuffles forward. His robes are wrinkled, as if he has slept in them, and his face is haggard, marked by dark circles under his eyes. He looks as though he hasn’t slept in days.

When he reaches the platform, he does not immediately speak. He stands there, staring at the ground in silence. The crowd begins to shift uncomfortably. After several awkward moments, he finally raises his head slightly, but his voice is low, almost a whisper. At first, you can barely make out what he is saying. Then, with sudden force, he looks past the crowd and cries, "Vanity of vanities!" (Ecc 1:2). He repeats himself, louder this time: "Vanity of vanities! All is vanity."

What follows is a strange, somber speech. For nearly half an hour, the king speaks about the futility of life. "All things are full of weariness," he declares (Ecc 1:8). "All is vanity and a striving after wind. There is nothing to be gained under the sun" (Ecc 2:11). The crowd exchanges bewildered glances. What is this? you wonder. What is wrong with the king? What is he talking about? Has he lost his mind?

You notice a scribe sitting nearby, furiously recording every word. He must be documenting the speech, you think. Then another thought crosses your mind: Who would want to read this? The speech feels chaotic, like a stream of raw emotion rather than a carefully prepared address.

As the king concludes, he repeats his opening words, "Vanity of vanities. All is vanity" (Ecc 12:8). Then he looks out over the crowd, and for the first time, you see something unmistakable in his expression: sincerity. Though you cannot fully grasp what he has said, it is clear that he meant every word. This is no empty performance. The king has spoken from the depths of his soul. He carries a burden, a sorrow, that none of you can yet understand. It will be years before the significance of this moment becomes clear.

Now, I have taken some creative license with this story. I cannot know the exact circumstances that led to the book of Ecclesiastes, but this imagined scene may not be far from the truth.

As we read the book of Ecclesiastes, we encounter two voices: the Preacher (or Teacher, as some translations put it) and the Narrator. The Narrator introduces the Preacher at the start of the book, writing, “The words of the Preacher, the son of David, king in Jerusalem” (Ecc 1:1). Then, in the very next verse, the Narrator relays the Preacher’s opening declaration: “Vanity of vanities, says the Preacher” (Ecc 1:2). From that point on, we hear the Preacher’s words.

The Narrator returns at the end of the book to summarize the Preacher’s message and offer his own conclusion. It is as though the Narrator wants to ensure that readers fully grasp the meaning behind the Preacher’s reflections.

The Preacher never identifies himself by name, but the evidence strongly points to King Solomon. He is introduced as “the son of David, king in Jerusalem” (Ecc 1:1). At the conclusion, the Narrator describes him as one who “taught the people knowledge, weighing and studying and arranging many proverbs with great care” (Ecc 12:9). Solomon, uniquely gifted with wisdom by God, was the primary author of the book of Proverbs. The Preacher also describes his immense power, wealth, and ambitious building projects—all consistent with Solomon’s accomplishments. For example, Solomon oversaw the construction of the temple and his own palace, massive projects that took years and thousands of laborers to complete. All the details align with Solomon as the Preacher.

Why is he called the Preacher? The term refers to someone who addresses an assembly, someone who gathers people to instruct them. A Hebrew dictionary might define the term as “assembler” or “one who calls together and teaches the congregation.” If Ecclesiastes reflects a speech Solomon gave to an audience, this could explain some of the book’s characteristics. For instance, the Narrator may have been a scribe who recorded and possibly edited Solomon’s words. It might also explain why the book feels somewhat disorganized. Many commentaries note its lack of structure, which can be confusing. But if we view it as an unrehearsed speech rather than a meticulously crafted document, this makes sense.

We also need to consider the context of Solomon’s life at the time. By the point when Ecclesiastes was likely delivered, Solomon was a broken man.

Solomon ascended to Israel’s throne after the death of his father, David, as a relatively young and inexperienced ruler. Early in his reign, God appeared to him in a dream and said, “Ask what I shall give you” (1Ki 3:5). Solomon humbly acknowledged his need for wisdom and asked for understanding to govern God’s people well. Pleased with Solomon’s request, God granted him extraordinary wisdom, along with riches and honor, and promised a long life if Solomon remained faithful (1Ki 3:10-14).

Solomon’s wisdom became legendary. You may recall the story of two women who came before him, each claiming to be the mother of the same child. Solomon’s famous solution—proposing to divide the child in two—revealed the true mother, establishing his reputation for profound insight. His wisdom and discernment became known throughout Israel and beyond.

Under Solomon’s reign, Israel experienced unparalleled peace and prosperity. He embarked on grand building projects, most notably the temple in Jerusalem, which became the center of worship for generations. At the temple’s dedication, Solomon fervently prayed, asking God to bless His people as long as they remained faithful (1Ki 8:22-53). Early in his life, Solomon was a man devoted to God and His glory.

In addition to his political and architectural achievements, Solomon wrote many proverbs, composed songs, and conducted studies in natural sciences, including plants and animals. His reputation for wisdom and wealth attracted leaders from around the world, such as the Queen of Sheba, who marveled at his greatness.

Yet Solomon’s later years were marked by spiritual decline. He married many foreign women in direct violation of God’s law, especially for kings. These women led him into idolatry, turning his heart away from the Lord. Solomon built high places—elevated sites for pagan worship—around Jerusalem. These altars became centers of idolatrous practices. In short, Solomon failed to remain fully devoted to the Lord, falling far short of the faithfulness his father David had demonstrated.

By the time Solomon spoke the words recorded in Ecclesiastes, he was a man weighed down by regret. His reflections are those of someone who has experienced the heights of wealth, power, and pleasure but has discovered their emptiness.

As a result of Solomon’s disobedience, God declared that the kingdom would be torn from his son and divided. After Solomon’s death, Israel would split into two kingdoms—Israel in the north and Judah in the south. The glory and prosperity that Israel enjoyed during Solomon’s reign would come to an end.

It is likely in the shadow of this impending judgment that Solomon spoke the words we read in Ecclesiastes: “Vanity of vanities, says the Preacher, vanity of vanities! All is vanity. What does man gain by all the toil at which he toils under the sun?” (Ecc 1:2-3). Solomon understood that everything he had worked so hard to achieve would eventually crumble. His accomplishments would be undone, and the weight of this realization left him heartbroken and full of regret.

Yet Solomon did not give this speech simply to lament his circumstances. He was not venting or indulging in cynicism. Contrary to what some commentators have suggested, Solomon was not a pessimist. His purpose was far more profound. He spoke these words to warn others, especially young people, to avoid the mistakes he had made. His reflections on the futility of life focus on a life lived apart from God—a life centered on self, ambition, and fleeting pleasures.

Notice how Solomon concludes his message in Ecclesiastes chapter 12. This is not the Narrator’s summary, which begins in verse 9, but Solomon’s own closing words. He says:

Remember also your Creator in the days of your youth, before the evil days come and the years draw near of which you will say, “I have no pleasure in them”; before the sun and the light and the moon and the stars are darkened and the clouds return after the rain, in the day when the keepers of the house tremble, and the strong men are bent, and the grinders cease because they are few, and those who look through the windows are dimmed, and the doors on the street are shut—when the sound of the grinding is low, and one rises up at the sound of a bird, and all the daughters of song are brought low—they are afraid also of what is high, and terrors are in the way; the almond tree blossoms, the grasshopper drags itself along, and desire fails, because man is going to his eternal home, and the mourners go about the streets—before the silver cord is snapped, or the golden bowl is broken, or the pitcher is shattered at the fountain, or the wheel broken at the cistern, and the dust returns to the earth as it was, and the spirit returns to God who gave it. Vanity of vanities, says the Preacher; all is vanity. (Ecclesiastes 12:1-8)

Though Solomon uses poetic and figurative language, his message is clear: Remember your Creator while you are young. Turn to Him before life’s burdens accumulate, before old age leaves you frail and filled with regret. Seek God now, while you can, and you will find joy in Him even in your later years. Don’t wait until it’s too late.

Understanding Ecclesiastes in this way has been personally helpful to me. When I read the book, I think about Solomon’s life—his sins, his regrets, and his plea for others to learn from his mistakes. Despite all his failings, Solomon was still a wise man, and his wisdom shines through in this speech. Though it may feel disorganized, reflecting his inner turmoil, his central message is profoundly simple: remember God.

This perspective reshapes how we approach the book of Ecclesiastes and, by extension, how we approach life. Take, for example, Solomon’s reflections in Ecclesiastes chapter 1. Starting in verse 4, he says:

A generation goes, and a generation comes,
but the earth remains forever.
The sun rises, and the sun goes down,
and hastens to the place where it rises.
The wind blows to the south
and goes around to the north;
around and around goes the wind,
and on its circuits the wind returns.
All streams run to the sea,
but the sea is not full;
to the place where the streams flow,
there they flow again.
All things are full of weariness;
a man cannot utter it;
the eye is not satisfied with seeing,
nor the ear filled with hearing.
What has been is what will be,
and what has been done is what will be done,
and there is nothing new under the sun.
Is there a thing of which it is said,
“See, this is new”?
It has been already
in the ages before us.
There is no remembrance of former things,
nor will there be any remembrance
of later things yet to be
among those who come after. (Ecclesiastes 1:4-11)

At first glance, this sounds deeply pessimistic. Solomon seems tired of life and frustrated by its monotony. He describes the repetitive nature of creation—the sun rises and sets, streams flow endlessly into the sea, and the wind circles the earth. He laments that no matter how much we see or experience, we are never fully satisfied. Generation after generation passes away, and eventually, even the memory of those who lived before us fades into obscurity.

Can you relate to that feeling?

When I was in high school, I was a terrible student—not because I wasn’t smart or capable, but because I didn’t want to be there. I hated the monotony of school. Every day felt like a rerun. I had to wake up at the same time, follow the same morning routine, attend the same classes with the same teachers at the same times, day after day. It drove me crazy. I skipped school as often as I could get away with it. And even when I didn’t get away with it, I convinced myself it was worth the punishment just to break the cycle.

I remember watching my pet guinea pig run on his exercise wheel and thinking, That’s me. I’m running and running, but I’m not going anywhere. Nothing ever changes. And what’s the point anyway?

That probably sounds depressing—and it was. But isn’t that how many people feel at some point? Maybe not on vacation or during the holidays. Maybe not when something exciting happens, like getting married or starting a new job. But most of life isn’t a vacation. Most of life isn’t new or thrilling. Most of life is routine. Ordinary. Mundane.

I don’t know what your typical day looks like, but here’s mine. My alarm goes off at 6 a.m. I start my morning routine: coffee, shave, get dressed, and try to leave the house in time to beat the school bus traffic. I spend my thirty-five-minute commute listening to the news, audiobooks, or podcasts, or just thinking quietly. I work for nine or ten hours, meeting with people, handling tasks, and navigating office dynamics. After work, I drive home, assuming I don’t need to run errands. Then I spend the evening with my family. We eat dinner, go through bedtime routines, and wind down. Once the kids are in bed, my wife and I might have some quiet time together, or I might read or study. By 10:30 or 11 p.m., I go to bed, ready to do it all again the next day.

It’s not an exciting life. It’s predictable. Routine. One day looks a lot like the one before. But here’s the thing: I feel completely different about my daily routine now than I did when I was in high school. Back then, I hated the monotony. Today, I love it. In fact, I thrive on it. Please don’t disrupt my routine. I like knowing what to expect.

So, what changed? Why do I embrace what I once despised? I’ll explain in just a moment.

But first, let’s look again at what Solomon says. He doesn’t just talk about life’s repetitive nature. He also speaks to our endless craving for satisfaction: “The eye is not satisfied with seeing, nor the ear filled with hearing” (Ecc 1:8).

Isn’t that true? We are wired to seek satisfaction. It’s our default. When we’re single, we want to find a spouse. When we’re married, we look forward to having children. If we have a job, we’re striving for a better one. If we own a house and a car, we think about upgrading them. And of course, we dream of retirement, imagining a time when we can finally do what we enjoy on our own terms.

But here’s the catch: we never quite arrive.

I often joke with my wife about this. She’s worked hard to make our house into a beautiful home over the past five years. But lately, I’ve noticed something—she’s started redecorating or remodeling the same rooms we already finished. I tease her about it, but isn’t that exactly what we all do? We’re always chasing the next thing, hoping it will finally bring us the satisfaction we crave. Yet no matter how much we achieve, there’s always another goal on the horizon.

I’m not picking on my wife, because I’m no different. For example, about twice a year, I switch between analog and digital tools. One day, I’ll decide, Physical books and notepads are just too inconvenient. From now on, I’m using my iPad for everything—my Bible, my books, my notes. It’s all in one place, easy to carry. Problem solved. But then a few months later, I’ll say, There’s just something about holding a real book or writing with a pencil. That’s it. I’m going back to analog.

No matter what I choose, the satisfaction never seems to last.

Can you relate?

Solomon certainly could. His reflections in Ecclesiastes don’t stop with the monotony of life in chapter 1. He describes searching for satisfaction in wisdom and education, in pleasure and entertainment, in wealth and accomplishments. Yet he keeps coming to the same conclusion: satisfaction eludes him. Nothing “under the sun” can provide lasting fulfillment.

That phrase, under the sun, appears twenty-nine times in Ecclesiastes. It’s key to understanding both the book and Solomon’s perspective. When Solomon says these things, he’s articulating two competing worldviews. He’s not a cynic who believes life is completely meaningless. But he does recognize that if we are to find purpose, meaning, and joy—even in life’s routine—we must look beyond the routine.

What does he mean by “under the sun”? It’s not just a poetic turn of phrase. It signifies a purely materialistic, naturalistic worldview—a perspective that ignores the spiritual, dismisses the reality of eternity, and, most importantly, excludes God. Not a vague notion of a higher power, but Yahweh, the God of the Bible.

Solomon speaks from personal experience. Despite his faithful beginnings, he allowed his pagan wives to lead him into idolatry, and his thinking became corrupted by this under the sun worldview. In hindsight, he sees how destructive it was. It rendered life meaningless. It stripped away purpose, joy, and any hope of true satisfaction.

Now, let’s turn to chapter 3, where Solomon offers a more reflective tone and broader perspective. This is perhaps the most well-known passage in Ecclesiastes. Pay close attention to the way he describes the rhythm of life and the sovereignty of God:

For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven:
a time to be born, and a time to die;
a time to plant, and a time to pluck up what is planted;
a time to kill, and a time to heal;
a time to break down, and a time to build up;
a time to weep, and a time to laugh;
a time to mourn, and a time to dance;
a time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together;
a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing;
a time to seek, and a time to lose;
a time to keep, and a time to cast away;
a time to tear, and a time to sew;
a time to keep silence, and a time to speak;
a time to love, and a time to hate;
a time for war, and a time for peace.

What gain has the worker from his toil? I have seen the business that God has given to the children of man to be busy with. He has made everything beautiful in its time. Also, he has put eternity into man’s heart, yet so that he cannot find out what God has done from the beginning to the end. I perceived that there is nothing better for them than to be joyful and to do good as long as they live; also that everyone should eat and drink and take pleasure in all his toil—this is God’s gift to man. (Ecclesiastes 3:1-13)

Do you notice the shift in worldview here? It’s a change that begins subtly in chapter 2 but becomes unmistakable in chapter 3, where Solomon introduces a stark contrast between two perspectives on life.

In the earlier worldview, life feels frustratingly tedious. Solomon finds no meaning in the endless cycles of existence. But in the later worldview—especially in chapter 3—every part of life has a distinct purpose. Solomon declares, “For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven … God has made everything beautiful in its time” (Ecc 3:1, 11).

In chapter 1, the world moves in meaningless circles, endlessly repeating without rhyme or reason. But in chapter 3, life transitions from one season to the next under God’s sovereign plan, and Solomon concludes that it can, and should, be enjoyed. In fact, he calls it beautiful.

So, what changed?

Consider the key differences between these chapters. First, Solomon moves from describing life under the sun to life under heaven. This marks a significant shift in perspective. No longer is he confining his thoughts to the material, natural world. Now he’s looking beyond this life, acknowledging the spiritual and eternal.

Two essential concepts emerge in chapter 3 that are missing from chapter 1: God and eternity. And they change everything.

“Remember your Creator,” Solomon urges later in the book (Ecc 12:1). Why? Because doing so transforms how we see and experience life.

Now, someone might ask, “How does it change anything? How does acknowledging God or trusting in His sovereignty make a difference in my daily life? My alarm still goes off at six in the morning. I still have to work, pay bills, wrestle with the kids, cook meals, and check items off an endless to-do list. How does knowing God help with any of that?”

On the surface, life’s activities won’t look dramatically different. Solomon admits as much. The seasons of life will continue. Believers and unbelievers alike go to work, take care of their families, and handle the same mundane tasks. The difference isn’t in the tasks but in how we view and approach them.

It’s tempting to reduce the difference to a matter of perspective, but it’s much deeper than that.

Let me share a prayer by Douglas McKelvey. It’s not about life’s big moments but about the small, everyday ones—the kind we often overlook. Yet, even in these, theology permeates. Listen to the words:

Many are the things that must be daily done.
Meet me therefore, O Lord,
in the doing of the small, repetitive tasks,

In the cleaning and ordering and
maintenance and stewardship of things—
of dishes, of floors, of carpets
and toilets and tubs,
of scrubbing and sweeping
and dusting and laundering—
That by such stewardship I might bring
a greater order to my own life,
and to the lives of any I am given to serve,
so that in those ordered spaces bright things might flourish:
fellowship and companionship,
creativity and conversation,
learning and laughter
and enjoyment and health.

As I steward the small, daily tasks, may I remember
these good ends, and so discover in my labors
the promise of the eternal hopes that underlie them.

High King of Heaven,
you showed yourself among us as the servant of all,
speaking stories of a kingdom to come, a kingdom in which
those who spend themselves for love, even in the humblest of
services, will not be forgotten, but whose every service lovingly
rendered will be seen from that far vantage as the planting
of a precious seed blooming into eternity.

And so I offer this small service to you, O Lord,
for you make no distinction between those acts
that bring a person the wide praise of their peers
and those unmarked acts that are accomplished
in a quiet obedience without accolade.
You see instead the heart, the love, and the
faithful stewardship of all labors, great and small.

And so, in your loving presence, I undertake this task.

O God, grant that my heart might be ordered aright,
knowing that all good service faithfully rendered
is first a service rendered unto you.
Receive then this my service, that even in the midst
of labors that hold no happiness in themselves,
I might have increasing joy.

Amen.

A Creator with a purposeful design for everything, a sovereign God who personally and providentially guides us through life—including its most ordinary, seemingly mundane moments—and the promise of eternity to come all point to a reality far greater than ourselves or the tasks we find so trivial.

Take something as simple as doing the dishes. It’s not just about cleaning up after a meal. It’s an opportunity to serve others. It’s a chance to fulfill the purpose for which we were created. It’s a moment to participate in God’s eternal plan, to reflect His order and care even in the smallest things. And in doing so, it’s an avenue to experience a joy that most of the world never will.

Yes, even doing the dishes can be an act of worship and a source of profound meaning.

Next time, we’ll consider how and why this is true in greater depth.

Recommended reading

Living Life Backward: How Ecclesiastes Teaches Us to Live in Light of the End by David Gibson

Ordinary: Sustainable Faith in a Radical, Restless World by Michael Horton

Providence by John Piper

God at Work: Your Christian Vocation in All of Life by Gene Edward Veith Jr.