The book of Ecclesiastes, or Kohelet, gets it. "All matters are wearying; man cannot utter it, the eye is not satisfied with seeing, nor the ear filled with hearing" (Ecclesiastes 1:8). But what kind of weariness are we talking about here?

Kohelet Rabbah, a fascinating collection of rabbinic interpretations on Ecclesiastes, dives into this very question. It suggests this weariness comes from the overuse of platitudes, those empty phrases and veiled allusions that some people use just to show off their cleverness. It's when language becomes a game of "guess what I really mean," and frankly, who has the energy for that?

The Midrash gives some pretty wild examples. Imagine someone saying "koreh hayom" — literally "read there." But, according to the Midrash, they don't mean reading at all! Koreh can also mean "assemble," and hayom in Aramaic can be understood as "there." So, this whole phrase is just a roundabout way of saying, "assemble there!" Get the headache yet?

Then there's "sela ka’oferet" – a coin like lead. But wait! Sela, a type of coin, sounds like ma'ot, which means money, which sounds like mi'ut, which means few. And oferet, lead, is avar in Aramaic, similar to evar, a limb or piece. So, "sela ka’oferet" is a convoluted way of saying "few pieces!"

And it gets even more bizarre. "mitpalelot betur misken" – literally "praying on a poor mountain" becomes "cut, soaked, cut." And “shor mishpat betur misken” – ox of justice on a poor mountain turns into “beets in mustard.” If you’re thinking “huh?” – you’re getting the point.

The text is illustrating how exhausting it is to decode these verbal puzzles, especially when there's no real purpose behind them. It’s linguistic gymnastics with no gold medal at the end.

The story of Rabbi Yonatan beautifully illustrates this point. Poor Rabbi Yonatan was losing his hair. Desperate for a cure, he journeyed to Migdal Tzeva'im, where he heard there was a skilled barber. When he arrived, the barber, instead of asking a straightforward question, greeted him with a riddle: "Did you come due to your hair, to cure it?"

Rabbi Yonatan, understanding the game, responded in kind, speaking indirectly about his "hair falling from his flesh" and his hope for a "medicine to accelerate the cure." He's speaking the barber's language.

The barber, impressed by Rabbi Yonatan's ability to play this linguistic game, prostrated himself and replied in a similar coded manner, hinting that he had previously spoken before a great rabbi at night. The Midrash HaMevoar notes that the barber was very impressed and, using a similar style of speech, promised to help Rabbi Yonatan.

This little story tucked away in Kohelet Rabbah reminds us that while cleverness and wit have their place, genuine communication requires clarity and sincerity. Sometimes, the most profound thing you can say is also the most direct. It’s a reminder to choose substance over style, to speak in ways that build bridges instead of building walls of cryptic language.

So, the next time you find yourself trapped in a conversation filled with veiled meanings and unnecessary complexity, remember Rabbi Yonatan and his weary head. Maybe, just maybe, you can gently steer the conversation toward something a little more… nourishing. Because life's too short to spend it deciphering riddles when we could be connecting on a real level.