Intern 2025-26

Ecclesiastes 2: 19-26

What are you carrying?

19th April 2026

Everybody is carrying something.

You can tell, sometimes, by the shoulders.
Sometimes by the silence.
Sometimes by how quickly a person laughs,
as if joy has become a thing they borrow
instead of something they own.

Everybody is carrying something.

A sentence that was once said by a father.
The absence of a mother.
A friendship that split open and never healed right.
A prayer that came back unopened.
The look on a doctor’s face before the doctor said the word.
The shame you still call by your own name,
as if it belongs to you now,
as if after enough years
pain gets squatters’ rights.

Everybody is carrying something.

And the Qohelet in Ecclesiastes, old wild preacher that he is,
does not walk into the room with a three-step plan
or a shiny grin
or a promise that if you just pray harder
none of it will hurt anymore.

He walks in like a man who has buried friends.
Like a man who has bought things and hated himself for it.
Like a man who has stood in sunlight
and still felt winter in his chest.

And he says:

Smoke.
Mist.
Breath on cold glass.
A hand full of wind.
That is what so much of this is.

Not because nothing matters.
But because everything does.
Because it passes.
Because it slips.
Because you cannot nail rain to a wall
or keep youth in a drawer
or make one beautiful afternoon stay.

And that is the ache, isn’t it?

We keep trying to turn moments into monuments.
Keep trying to make safe what was only ever given.
Keep trying to grip what was meant to be received.

And then we do the same with sorrow.

We pick it up.
At first because we have to.
Because grief is love with nowhere to sit.
Because betrayal leaves glass in the bloodstream.
Because humiliation has a long memory.
Because some words said over us in childhood
keep echoing in the adult house.

At first we carry it because it happened.

Then, after a while,
we carry it because we do not know who we are without it.

It becomes our language.
Our posture.
Our little private liturgy.

Our favourite evidence that the world owes us something.

And this is how the soul gets tired.

Not tired from work.
Not tired from children.
Not tired from ministry.
Tired from carrying what God never asked us to drag into tomorrow.

Some of us are dragging old anger
like a suitcase with one broken wheel.

You know the sound.
That hard plastic scrape.
That stubborn, ugly clatter.
Everybody hears it.
You hear it most of all.
But you keep pulling it because it is yours now.
You packed it.
You labeled it.
You have built a self around its weight.

And Ecclesiastes says:
Look at your hands.

Look at how hard you are gripping.

Look at what it is costing you
to stay furious,
to stay bitter,
to stay haunted,
to stay the curator of your own injuries.

There is a way pain lies to us.
It tells us that if we release it,
we are saying it did not matter.
That if we forgive,
we are calling evil good.
That if we unclench,
we are excusing the one who wounded us.

But release is not denial.
And forgiveness is not amnesia.
And mercy is not pretending.

Sometimes forgiveness is simply this:
I will not let what happened to me
be the only thing that gets to happen in me.

I will not build my home
inside the worst moment of my life.

I will not keep licking the knife
to prove that it cuts.

I will not worship my wound
by calling it honesty.

No.

I will tell the truth.
It hurt.
It mattered.
It changed me.
And still, by the grace of God,
it will not own me.

That is not easy.
That is work that can only be done by the spirit.

Ecclesiastes already shows us how strange this world is.
One person laughs so hard they spill their drink
while another sits in a parked car
trying to remember how to breathe.
Fresh flowers on one table. Sympathy flowers on the next.
Someone gets a promotion.
Someone gets a diagnosis.
Someone is falling in love under fairy lights.
Someone is deleting a number
they know by heart.

Funny, the way it is.

Funny in the way rain is funny
when it falls on a wedding and a war memorial
with the same indifference.

Funny in the way the sun rises
on people who sang all night
and people who cried all night.

Funny in the way life can be heartbreak and breakfast
graveside and birdsong
hospital corridor and blue sky
all at once.

Ecclesiastes does not resent that tension.
He names it.

He says life under the sun is crooked in places.
Unfinished.
Uncontrollable.
Beautiful enough to make you cry.
Sad enough to make you laugh at odd times
because otherwise you would split in half.

So what do you do?

You fear God.
You remember your Creator.
You eat your bread with gratitude.
You love the person at your table.
You do the good that is in front of you.
You stop asking this passing world
to be a permanent savior.

And you travel lighter.

Not shallow.
Not numb.
Not fake.
Lighter.

Lighter because not every burden is yours.
Lighter because revenge is too heavy for creatures made of dust.
Lighter because some bags are full of stones
you keep calling loyalty.
Lighter because Christ did not come
only to admire your endurance.
He came to lift what is crushing you.

This is the gospel for tired people:

You do not have to save yourself by carrying everything.
You do not have to justify your pain by preserving it forever.
You do not have to drag yesterday
through every doorway of your future.

Jesus Christ enters the vapor with us.
He does not stand at a safe distance
shouting instructions from the shore.

He takes on flesh,
which means he takes on limits.
He takes on tears,
which means he takes on ache.
He takes on a cross,
which means he takes on the worst that human hands can do.
And then, having gone all the way down
into the black luggage of death itself,
he rises.

And if he rises,
then not even your deepest wound
gets the last word.

Not your shame.
Not your betrayal.
Not your regret.
Not the thing you did.
Not the thing done to you.
Not the years you lost.
Not the person who never came back.
Not the apology you never got.

Not even death
gets the last word.

So here is the question.

Not what happened to you.
That matters, but it is not the only question.

Not what they owed you.
Not what you should have said.
Not how much time has passed.

Here is the question:

What are you still carrying
that Christ is asking you to put down?

What name?
What memory?
What version of yourself?
What grief that has turned into identity?
What anger that has started to feel like companionship?
What dream of control?
What old sentence?
What polished bitterness?
What little black suitcase of self-protection
with your initials stitched into the side?

Put it down.

Not because it was small.
Because God is big.

Not because it did not scar you.
Because Christ can bless scars
without making you live inside them.

Not because tomorrow will be easy.
Because today is grace.

Put it down.

And maybe when your hands are finally empty,
you will find they are open.

Open to bread.
Open to blessing.
Open to another person’s face.
Open to prayer.
Open to wonder.
Open to the ordinary miracle
of being alive on a Tuesday
in a world that is breaking and burning and blooming
all at once.

Open to God.

Because this life is brief.
Ecclesiastes is right.
It is breath.
It is mist.
It is a song heard through the wall
that is already ending while you listen.

But breath is also what God used in the beginning.

He breathed into dust
and called it living.

So let him breathe on you again.

On your tired heart.
On your clenched jaw.
On your crowded soul.
On the part of you still that is still sitting in the airport
waiting for luggage that was removed from your life years ago.

Receive the ability to breathe properly.
Not a life that suddenly makes perfect sense.
But enough mercy for today.
Enough courage to forgive.
Enough humility to receive joy when it comes.
Enough faith to believe
that the holiest thing you may do this week
is stop dragging the luggage of what Christ died to free you from.

Events

Discover upcoming events and activities at BRBC Church, including youth groups, Bible studies, and community outreach programs.

Ecclesiastes doesn’t pretend that life is tidy.

It tells the truth about life “under the sun”: beautiful, brief, confusing, and often out of our control. The Teacher’s ultimate conclusion is that we should stop grasping, receive God’s gifts with gratitude, fear God and live faithfully in the ever changing and fleeting seasons of life.

Pray

Eternal God,
when I chase certainty
and try to control what I can’t control,
quiet my restless heart.

Loosen my grip on what won’t last.

Teach me to receive today as a gift,
to live with open hands,
and to trust You fully.

Amen.

Ecclesiastes 1:2

“Meaningless! Meaningless! … Everything is meaningless!” (NIV)

“Meaningless” is the translation of a Hebrew word that is more like…

breath.
vapour.
mist.

Not “nothing.”
Not “worthless.”
More like: you can’t grab it.

You’ve seen your breath on a cold morning.
It’s there.
And then it’s not.

And that’s the Teacher’s point.

Life is real but

life won’t stay in your hands.

You can work hard.
Plan well.
Build something good.
And still… you can’t control how long it lasts.
Or what happens next.
Or who takes it from you.
Or who inherits it.
Or what they do with it.

Which is why this verse hits a nerve.

Because so much of our anxiety is basically this:

Trying to secure what can’t be secured.

Trying to make ourselves safe.
Trying to guarantee outcomes.

And it wears you out.

Because if you live like it’s all on you,
like if you just think hard enough,
work long enough,
plan far enough ahead…

then maybe you can finally relax.

But you can’t.
Because there’s always one more “what if.”
One more loose end.
One more thing you didn’t see coming.

And Ecclesiastes just looks you in the eye and says:

This is what it’s like to be human.

Breath.
Vapour.
Mist.

So the Teacher isn’t trying to crush you.
He’s trying to free you.

He’s saying: stop demanding certainty from a world that can’t give it.
Stop asking your work, your savings, your status, your plans
to carry the weight of eternity.

Because they can’t.

Reflect

Do I need permission to be human: limited, fragile, unfinished?

What am I trying to hold onto that I may need to release?

Pray

God of all seasons,
give us wisdom to recognise the time we are in,
courage to face it honestly,
and grace to act faithfully within it.
Teach us to receive what we cannot control
and to trust you with what comes next.
Amen.

Read Ecclesiastes 3:1-8

Ecclesiastes 3:1-8 is a poem built from pairs of opposites: birth/death, weep/laugh, mourn/dance. It is not saying every event is good, or that every season is easy. It’s saying life “under the sun” includes both sides, and wisdom isn’t pretending you only live on one side of the pairs.

This poem echoes a wider biblical rhythm: creation has seasons; human life has seasons. God’s purposes unfold in time. Throughout Scripture, wisdom often looks like patient trust and faithful action inside the moment you actually have and not the moment you wish you had.

The Bible doesn’t teach a spirituality that floats above real life. It teaches a faith that walks through real life: births and deaths, planting and uprooting, tears and laughter, silence and conversation.

So the passage gives permission for us to admit:

This is a time to grieve.
This is a time to wait.
This is a time to rebuild.
This is a time to let go.

And it also brings a challenge:
We often try to live in the wrong season.
We try to dance when it’s time to mourn.
We try to cling on to things when it’s time to release.

In Ecclesiastes 3, wisdom isn’t having the whole map. Wisdom is taking the next faithful step in the time you’re in with honesty, humility, and open hands.

Reflect

Are you trying to rush a season that can’t be rushed?

Are you trying to skip grief, silence, waiting, or letting go?

What are you clinging to that may need releasing?

What is one small beauty God is giving you in this time?

Pray

God of dust and breath,

I remember that I am fragile.

I remember that I am loved.

Teach me to let go of what doesn’t matter,

and to return to you with my whole heart.

Amen.

Ecclesiastes 12v7

“the dust returns to the ground it came from, and the spirit returns to God who gave it.”

Ecclesiastes 12:7 is a single, sober sentence that holds two realities together: dust and breath.

It says, “the dust returns to the ground it came from, and the spirit returns to God who gave it.” It isn’t trying to scare us, or flatten life into pessimism. It’s telling the truth about what we are finite, fragile, dependent and yet held by God from first breath to last.

This verse reminds us that we are formed from dust, animated by God’s breath, and our days are given rather than owned. Life is not ours to secure or control; it is ours to receive and steward. Throughout Scripture, wisdom often looks like humility about our limits and trust in the God who gives life.

The Bible doesn’t teach a spirituality that floats above mortality. It teaches a faith that can look death in the face without denial, naming our frailty, grieving honestly, and still turning toward God.

Ecclesiastes reminds us:
We often live as if we are not dust.
We postpone what matters.
We cling to what cannot last.

But Ecclesiastes also invites a wiser way to live: to remember our Creator now and to live awake, with open hands. To receive each day as gift. To release what we cannot keep. And to entrust our breath, our spirit, our life, to the God who gave it.

Reflect

What do you reach for first when you feel anxious and what does that reveal?

What would you be afraid to lose, and why?
What loss would expose what you’ve been living for?

What are you trying to control that you actually need to entrust?
What are you refusing to grieve because it would mean admitting change is real?

Pray

God of peace,
free me from striving and fear.
Teach me to receive what you give today,
and release what I cannot control.
Give me peace in my work
and rest in the night.
Amen.

Ecclesiastes 2:17–26

Ecclesiastes 2:17–26 is one of the rawest passages in the book. It holds two realities together: toil and gift.

“So I hated life…”

The Teacher has worked, built, achieved and yet it turns bitter, because what he has made will not stay in his hands. He must leave it to someone else, and he cannot control what they will do with it. It’s telling the truth about what work cannot do: it cannot secure us, it cannot guarantee outcomes, and it cannot carry the weight of ultimate meaning.

This section names the hidden cost of striving: not just tired hands, but a restless heart. “All their days their work is grief and pain… even at night their minds do not rest” (v23).

Ecclesiastes isn’t describing a busy calendar so much as a mind that can’t stop, an inner life colonised by the need to prove, achieve, and protect what we’ve built.

But then the passage turns. Not to denial, but to a different kind of wisdom: “A person can do nothing better than to eat and drink and find satisfaction in their toil… this too, I see, is from the hand of God” (v24).

Teacher suggests that real enjoyment, contentment, comes as gift, not as something we can force through control.

Ecclesiastes reminds us:

We often ask work to give us what it cannot: identity, security, significance.
We cling to outcomes we cannot control.
We carry tomorrow’s burden into tonight, and wonder why we can’t rest.

But Ecclesiastes also invites a wiser way to live: to work faithfully without worshipping work; to receive your portion as gift; to release what you cannot secure; and to trust God with what comes after you.

Reflect

What are you afraid will happen if you stop striving?

What outcome are you trying to control that you need to entrust to God?

Do it again...

Children have abounding vitality, because they are in spirit fierce and free, therefore they want things repeated and unchanged. They always say, ‘Do it again’; and the grown-up person does it again until he is nearly dead. For grown-up people are not strong enough to exult in monotony. But perhaps God is strong enough to exult in monotony. It is possible that God says every morning, ‘Do it again’ to the sun, and every evening, ‘Do it again’ to the moon. It may not be automatic necessity that makes all daisies alike; it may be that God makes every daisy separately but has never got tired of making them. It may be that He has the eternal appetite of infancy; for we have sinned and grown old, and our Father is younger than we. The repetition in Nature may not be a mere recurrence; it may be a theatrical encore.

G. K. Chesterton

Pray

Loving God,
we praise you for the faithfulness of your world,
for the quiet rhythm of morning and evening,
for breath that returns,
for light that comes again,
for mercies that meet us before we have even found the words to ask.

Forgive our tired eyes, Lord, when we stop noticing your gifts.
Restore to us the joy of the ordinary:
a spirit that can receive today as new,
and a heart that can say “thank you” again, without wearing out.

You are the God who delights to give life.
You are the God who renews.
You are the God who says, with love, “Do it again.”

Amen.

Ecclesiastes 1:9

“What has been will be again,
what has been done will be done again;
there is nothing new under the sun."

Ecclesiastes 1:9 (NIV)

Ian Pethick, MA(Oxon)

Ian has 12 years’ teaching experience and, alongside serving as a Baptist intern at Buckland Road Baptist Church (BRBC), is studying Theology, Mission and Ministry at Westminster College, Cambridge. He is currently writing a dissertation on Ecclesiastes and burnout in professional ministry and, throughout the year, has been preaching a sermon series on Ecclesiastes. You can explore resources accompanying the series below.

Ian Pethick is involved in developing SpiritConnect.education, a charitable initiative focused on theology, education, and public life. Having studied Philosophy, Politics and Economics at Mansfield College, Oxford, and now studying at Westminster College, Cambridge, he is interested in how theological reflection can serve the Church and wider society. His current work includes questions around ministerial burnout, vocation, sabbath, and sustainable Christian leadership.

Pethick’s work is marked by an interest in how rigorous academic study can be brought into conversation with the needs of the Church and wider society. Bringing together philosophical reasoning, political awareness, economic understanding, and theological reflection, he is developing work that asks how education can foster wiser judgement, stronger communities, and a deeper engagement with faith and public life. In this way, SpiritConnect.education aims not only to contribute to contemporary conversations in theology and society, but also to create resources, partnerships, and public-facing work that make serious Christian thought more accessible and more publicly credible.

Current Projects:

Ministerial burnout as a challenge for theology, pastoral practice, and theological education

The relation between vocation, judgement, and sustainability in Christian ministry

Rest, sabbath, and creaturely limitation in Christian doctrine

The theological and institutional conditions that contribute to clergy exhaustion

The formation of ministers through practices of resilience, friendship, and prayer

How churches and theological colleges can cultivate healthier patterns of leadership

Baptist ecclesiology might inform the integration of pedagogy and andragogy in a small free church context

Spring 2026 Baptist Together Magazine Article from Ian

Ecclesiastes 2: 19-26

What are you carrying?

19th April 2026

Events

“Meaningless! Meaningless!” says the Teacher. “Utterly meaningless! Everything is meaningless.”

Pray

Ecclesiastes 1:2

Reflect

Pray

Read Ecclesiastes 3:1-8

Reflect

Go Deeper with The Bible Project

Podcast Episodes

Pray

Ecclesiastes 12v7

Reflect

Pray

Ecclesiastes 2:17–26

Reflect

Do it again...

G. K. Chesterton

Pray

Ecclesiastes 1:9

Ian Pethick, MA(Oxon)