What does he see?
He sees what humans do to one another.

There are many tears–

quiet, steady, mostly unnoticed.
The crushed have no one to stand beside them.
No voice rises in their defense.

Power gathers on the other side.
Strength answers to strength.
And those who suffer remain alone.

He speaks a hard conclusion:
The living must endure.

But the dead are at rest.

The one who has never drawn breath is better still
since he is spared altogether,
for he has not witnessed the machinery of injustice
turning under the sun.

And then the Teacher steadies us:
Do not be shocked when the poor are pressed down,
when justice is bent,
when righteousness is traded.

Because this is how the structure stands:
officials guard another,
Protection layered upon protection.
Power reinforcing power.

And so the pattern continues beneath the sun.

In a world where injustice persists and life often feels vapor-thin, the Teacher says there is still something solid to hold onto. There is nothing better for a person than to receive the ordinary gifts in front of him. Eat, drink, and find satisfaction in work. He’s not saying we should pretend the world is fair but instead, recognize even in an unfair world, daily joys come from God’s hand.

Your portion is enjoying meals, taking satisfaction in labor, and rejoicing in the good you are given. These are the days God has assigned to you under the sun and you can receive them with gratitude even if you cannot control how long they last.

So go ahead: eat bread with joy. Drink with a glad heart. Enjoy life with the spouse you love during the fleeting days you are given. These are gifts from God himself! They are not small. They are God’s provision for you in a world you cannot fix.

There is nothing better under the sun than to receive these moments and let them accompany you in your work. God gives wisdom, knowledge, and joy to those who walk with him. And when he fills a person’s heart with joy, that joy steadies him. It keeps him from obsessing over how short life is or how broken the system may be.

You may not be able to straighten everything that is crooked. But you can faithfully receive what God has placed in your hands today.

There’s a strange kind of clarity that comes from staring into the night sky. It’s vast but calming, silent but full of truth. Astronomers measure distances in millions of light-years, sketch the cosmic web that binds galaxies together, and speak of unseen matter with a confidence that feels almost magical like something from Harry Potter. Yet Scripture captures that same endless expanse in a whisper: “He made the stars also.” Three words in Hebrew. A whole universe tucked under God’s fingertips.

Recently, my boys and I built a LEGO model of the Milky Way galaxy. Hours around the table, sorting tiny pieces meant to represent structures no human eye has ever seen from the outside. When we snapped the spirals into place, I wondered, “How do we know this is what it looks like?” And suddenly I was on a Google rabbit trail that spoke of parallax measurements, dust lanes, radio waves, and how we’ve mapped our home from the inside like explorers tracing a forest by counting trees.

There was something beautifully ironic about it—building a galaxy out of bricks, fitting grand mysteries into our hands. It felt like a picture of what all science is: humble creature trying to trace the fingerprints of their Creator with whatever tools they have. A childlike act of wonder.

The more you learn, the stranger and grander the universe becomes. A Milky Way filled with hundreds of billions of stars. Trillions of galaxies spread out like lanterns across the cosmic web. Distances measured not in miles but in millions of light-year intervals. Intergalactic space that is almost nothing – just a lonely hydrogen atom here and there, a wash of radiation, invisible threads of dark matter holding everything together.

It’s vast beyond thought. And yet the Bible speaks of it with such quiet understatement. Scripture refuses to be impressed. It simply says: and the stars also.

Ecclesiastes shares the same tone. The Preacher looks at the world’s enormity and reminds us:

“God is in heaven and you are on earth.” (Ecclesiastes 5:2)

Not to belittle us – but to anchor us. To teach us that awe should lead to humility, not pride. That wonder should draw us upward, not inward. That the scale of creation should remind us of our dependence, not our significance.

And maybe that’s the heart of this reflection: cosmic knowledge dazzles us, but it doesn’t exalt us. The universe is immeasurable, but it’s not ultimate. All of it – galaxies, dark matter, voids, and spirals – rests within the sovereignty of God.

The same God who holds a trillion galaxies in place is the God who knows us by name. The heavens preach his majesty, but they also preach His nearness.

Everything we see is a reflection, a window, a veil of smoke and mirrors pointing to a greater reality behind it all. And in that quiet, ancient line from Genesis, the curtain lifts just enough for us to glimpse the truth that steadies everything:

He made the stars also.

Life isn’t only fleeting—it can also be deceiving. Not only is life under the sun full of smoke—it is often an illusion. Like a magician’s careful use of mirrors to make something appear or disappear, our world is filled with illusions of control and contentment. We’re promised these every election cycle by every politician who’s ever lived, well intentioned or not.

So, as pilgrims—like Christian in The Pilgrim’s Progress—we navigate a world of smoke and mirrors, trying to discern what is real, what is true, and what will last. And just when the haze feels thickest, every so often, a light shines through. The same Preacher also observes that “He [God] has made everything appropriate in its time.” Faith, then, isn’t necessarily about clearing the smoke or exposing the mirrors—it’s about learning to see God within them.

All of this helps me shape the way I see the world and even the way I speak. Those of you who know me best know that I have very few opinions. I’m known for saying things like “Sure,” “Sounds good,” “Fine with me,” “I don’t care,” or “Doesn’t matter.” That’s because I find it increasingly difficult to cling to too many strong opinions in a world so full of smoke and mirrors. I have far more questions than answers. But while I may not have many opinions, I do have plenty of observations—not arguments, but wonderings. I’m trying to learn to see things slowly.

If you’re a pilgrim like Christian and me, and if you sense with the Preacher that we live in a world of smoke and mirrors, I invite you to reflect and observe. I don’t live under the sun to clear the smoke—only to watch the light.

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