It starts with a bang: "Vanity of vanities, said Kohelet; vanity of vanities, everything is vanity" (Ecclesiastes 1:2). But what does that even mean? What is this "vanity," this hevel, that the book keeps hammering on about?

The ancient rabbis grappled with this too. In Kohelet Rabbah, a collection of rabbinic interpretations on Ecclesiastes, they try to unpack this loaded word, hevel.

Rabbi Huna, quoting Rabbi Aḥa, offers a fascinating idea: King David made a statement but didn't fully explain it, and his son Solomon clarified it. Then Solomon made a statement, and David clarified his! It's like a father-son interpretive dance. David says, "Man is like hevel" (Psalms 144:4). But what kind of hevel? The heat rising from an oven? The steam from a stove? Those have substance, a purpose.

Then Solomon, the supposed wisest of all men, comes along and says, "Vanity of vanities, hevel havalim, everything is hevel!"

Rabbi Shmuel bar Naḥmani, citing Rabbi Yehoshua ben Korḥa, paints a vivid image: imagine seven pots stacked on a fire, one on top of the other. The heat from the topmost pot? Pretty insignificant. That’s the kind of hevel we’re talking about here. Fleeting, insubstantial.

Solomon also asks, "For who knows what is good for man in his life, all the days of his vain life, that he spends like a shadow?" (Ecclesiastes 6:12). But again, what kind of shadow? A wall's shadow? A palm tree's? Those have form, definition. David, in Psalms 144:4, offers a sharper image: "His days are like a passing shadow." Rabbi Huna, again quoting Rav Aḥa, takes it even further: it's like a bird flying by, its shadow gone in an instant. Shmuel compares it to the shadow of bees – so light, so fleeting, almost nonexistent.

Rabbi Shmuel bar Rav Yitzḥak, quoting Rabbi Shimon ben Elazar, presents another thought-provoking idea. The seven "vanities" Kohelet mentions correspond to the seven stages of life. He paints a rather unflattering, yet honest, picture: a one-year-old is treated like royalty, but by two or three, they're playing in the dirt. At ten, they're jumping around like goats. Twenty? They're preening and chasing after a spouse like a horse. Marriage turns them into a donkey, and parenthood makes them as audacious as a dog trying to feed their family. And in old age? Well, they’re like a monkey.

Ouch.

But then, a glimmer of hope. This unflattering assessment, he clarifies, is about “the common people.” For those dedicated to Torah, it's different. "King David was old," the text reminds us, "but even in his old age, he was still a king." There's a path to transcend this fleeting vanity.

Rabbi Yehuda ben Rabbi Simon offers another perspective. He connects the seven vanities to the seven days of Creation. Each day, something amazing is created – the heavens, the earth, the firmament, the seas, light, creatures, humans. Yet, for each day, there's also a prophecy of its eventual destruction. The heavens will vanish like smoke (Isaiah 51:6), the skies will be furled like a scroll (Isaiah 34:4), the sea will be destroyed (Isaiah 11:15), and so on. Everything created will eventually fade.

Everything, that is, except Shabbat.

Regarding Shabbat, the text asks, what prophecy of destruction is there? Well, one who profanes it intentionally faces death (Exodus 31:14). But even unintentional desecration can be atoned for with an offering. Adam, upon seeing the power of Shabbat to bring atonement, sang praises to God. This, the text suggests, is the origin of Psalm 92:1, "A psalm, a song for the day of Shabbat," composed by Adam himself!

So, what are we left with? Is everything truly vanity? Perhaps the message isn't despair, but a call to focus on what truly matters. To seek meaning beyond the fleeting pleasures and achievements of this world. To find connection and purpose in something lasting, like Torah study, righteous action, and, perhaps most importantly, in the sacred space of Shabbat. Maybe that's how we escape the endless cycle of hevel.