Ecclesiastes and the Algorithm

Chasing Meaning in a Wired World

In an Age of Perfect Feeds, Why Bother Searching the Hard Way?

When your phone knows what you want before you do, the whole idea of searching, truly searching, starts to feel unnecessary. Why wrestle with meaning when the algorithm can just suggest something comforting instead?

Every day we’re offered quicker paths to contentment. Not real contentment, of course, but something dressed up like it. Personalized ads. Autoplaying answers. News tailored to our fears, music tuned to our moods. It's not that we won't find what we want, it's that the finding takes almost no effort. And maybe that’s the problem.

Because despite all the convenience, something still feels off. The ache doesn’t go away. In fact, it sharpens. The more our machines learn about us, the less we seem to know ourselves. The more we’re given answers, the fewer we know what to ask.

It’s here, in the middle of this polite digital numbness, that a much older voice interrupts. The voice of Ecclesiastes. An ancient king, a mind sharper than ours, looked at life from every angle and came back unimpressed.

The Preacher Did It First

Long before apps and algorithms, Solomon set out to find the meaning of life. He didn’t hold back. Whatever he desired, he tried. Whatever wisdom he could grasp, he pursued.

He started with the intellect. Books, learning, discernment. He became a master of knowledge and still concluded, “in much wisdom is much vexation.” You don’t find peace by getting smarter. Sometimes it only makes the void louder.

Next came pleasure. Food, sex, laughter, wine, music. He gathered wealth, built parks, wrote poetry. He indulged to the hilt. The result? "All was vanity and a striving after wind."

Work followed. He threw himself into great projects, built cities, made innovations. But it dawned on him that no matter how much he built, it would all end up in the hands of someone else. Possibly a fool.

Legacy? That didn’t comfort him either. Time erases even the best of us. Eventually, no one remembers who did what, or why it mattered.

Over and over, he repeats a word: hevel. Vapor. Mist. Meaning that slips through your fingers the moment you try to hold it.

We Haven’t Advanced So Much as Repackaged

Modern life has only added polish to the same futility. We've digitized the search, but the ache remains.

We don’t ask questions anymore, we search them.
We don’t explore, we scroll.
We don’t reflect, we react.

Solomon chased wisdom, and so do we. Only now it’s delivered by predictive text.

He chased pleasure. We’ve compressed ours into short-form content, snacks for the brain.

He worked to create lasting projects. We use apps to make our to-do lists prettier.

He wondered what his legacy might be. We post into the void and hope someone saves it before it disappears.

It’s all very clean, very clever, and very empty.

You Can Automate the Search, But Not the Answer

This is what makes Ecclesiastes so dangerous. It doesn’t try to sell you peace. It doesn’t smooth over the contradictions. It stares into the abyss and says, “Yes, you’re right to feel like this.”

It admits what most of us suspect in quieter moments. The formulas don’t work. The upgrades don’t satisfy. The answers are too easy, which makes them wrong.

Ecclesiastes gives no cheat code, no spiritual shortcut. It doesn’t promise a map. It simply points, eventually, to something solid.

“Fear God and keep His commandments, for this is the whole duty of man.”

Not because it’s fashionable.
Not because it gives you goosebumps.
Not because it outperformed the other options in testing.

Because it’s real. Because it holds, even when everything else breaks down.

The Feed Won’t Take You There

If you wait for the algorithm to serve up meaning, it never will. It’ll keep you entertained. Distracted. A little numbed, a little agitated, always close to satisfied, but never quite.

It’s clever that way. It gives you just enough to keep you from noticing how starved you are.

But meaning still waits for those who stop scrolling, sit with the ache, and ask the harder questions. Not just “what’s next,” but “what lasts.”

That’s what Ecclesiastes is doing. It’s not offering comfort. It’s holding the door open.

Some things can’t be customized. They can only be revealed.