In my more nihilistic days, I obsessed over the more “bah humbug” parts of Ecclesiastes. They validated my angst, my frustration at my tattered faith, and my anger at how my church communities had treated me. Over time, I’ve come to see the Book less as an angry spiritual rant, a biblical throwing-up of the hands, and more as a palliative for the struggling soul. It’s twelve-chapter therapy, walking through despair and sadness, confusion and grief over the loss of certainty. But it doesn’t stop there. It then goes to a place where mystery is an object not of fear but for exploration, where
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