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In many ways, the ancient Greeks saw life as a riddle to be solved. In contrast, biblical man saw life as a parable to be lived. The first view pushes towards an endless search for meaning; the second towards a purposeful life.

The Ancient Greeks Love Riddles

Riddles are largely unintelligible and demand a search for meaning. They are admired in ancient Greek thought specifically because they are less intelligible than the simple presentation of facts and transmit no meaning. In his probing discussion of the non-informative aspect of Apollo’s speech, the classicist Bruce Heiden (2005) raises the question of whether Apollo’s noncommunicative oracles served another function. He cites Sophocles’ fragment 771 in this regard.

And I thoroughly understand that the god is this way:

To the wise, always a poser of riddles in divine speech,

but to the foolish a teacher of lessons, trivial and concise.

Heiden goes on to argue that “the different addressees for whom Apollo’s speeches are either lessons or riddles do not exercise different linguistic competencies, but different degrees of wisdom, and the acquisition of the positive meaning of the teaching surprisingly accords with stupidity, while the riddle, whose characteristic is denial of meaning, accords with positive wisdom.”46

The Hebrew Bible Loves Parables

Consider in contrast Scripture’s description of Abraham at the end of his life as being “satisfied with days.” Parables, while metaphorical, give clear life lessons, perhaps better accepted than naked truth. They can be seen as providing a guide for purposeful living.

Truth, naked and cold, had been turned away from every door in the village. Her nakedness frightened the people. When Parable found her, she was huddled in a corner, shivering and hungry. Taking pity on her, Parable gathered her up and took her home. There, she dressed Truth in story, warmed her and sent her out again. Clothed in story, Truth knocked again at the doors and was readily welcomed into the villagers’ houses. They invited her to eat at their tables and warm herself by their fires.

Ever since that time, Truth and Parable have gone hand in hand and they are made welcome wherever they go. “And do you see,” concluded the Preacher of Dubno, “I do not change the truth, nor try to hide it within my stories. I merely dress it up in beautiful clothing so that people will welcome it into their hearts”47

In this context, let us compare two very well-known fables: the story of Rumpelstiltskin versus that of the emperor with no clothes.

Rumpelstiltskin

Consider the famous riddle of Rumpelstiltskin, which is not Greek at all but illustrates a fruitless search for meaning. We follow the Brothers Grimm version.48

A poor miller had a beautiful daughter. Once he had occasion to speak to the king and, to give himself an air of importance, boasted that his daughter could spin straw into gold. The king ordered the miller to bring the girl to the palace. If she succeeded, he would make her his queen; if not, she would be put to death. The next day the girl came and was placed in a room full of straw and ordered to spin the straw into gold. The poor girl, of course, had no idea what to do. Suddenly the door opened, and a little man stepped into the room. Learning of the girl’s dilemma, the little man asked, “What will you give me if I spin this straw into gold?” The girl volunteered her necklace, and the little man spun all the straw into gold. The king was thrilled but also greedy. On the next day, he again placed the girl in a room full of straw with same demand. Once again the little man appeared and offered to spin the straw into gold in exchange, this time for the girl’s ring. The greedy king repeated his demand on the third day. Again, the little man came, but this time the girl had no more baubles to give him. “Well then,” said the little man, “will you promise to give me your first-born child if you become queen?” Desperately frightened, the girl agreed. When the king returned the next day, the room was once more filled with gold, and he married the miller’s daughter.

A year later, a beautiful child was born. The queen had quite forgotten the little man, but he came and demanded the child as promised. Terrified, the queen offered him all sorts of wealth but could not dissuade him from demanding the child. She wept so bitterly that the little man finally felt sorry for her. He agreed to give her three days. If she could discover his name, she could keep the child.

For two days, the queen guessed a long list of names but could not discover the true name. On the third day, one of her agents came in and reported that he had passed a little house far away in a forest on a mountain, where he saw a little man dancing around a fire and singing a song that ended with the words, “And little knows the royal dame that Rumpelstiltskin is my name.”

When the little man returned on the third day and heard the queen’s correct answer, he grew so enraged that he stamped his foot into the ground up to his waist, and then seizing his left leg tore himself apart.

The central riddle in the story is the little man’s name, but the story contains other characteristic features as well—the magical entry of the little man and his inhuman appearance, the remarkable greed and cruelty of the king, the importance of gold, and the lack of decency. There is little to learn from the story except that the world is a frightening and irrationally insecure place. The very search for the meaning of the riddle is destructive. A riddle such as this leaves the listener feeling powerless; there is nothing one can do to escape a terrible situation.

The Emperor’s New Clothes

Consider in contrast the famous parable of “The Emperor’s New Clothes” by Hans Christian Anderson.49

Many years ago there was an Emperor so exceedingly fond of new clothes that he spent all his money on being well dressed. He cared nothing about reviewing his soldiers, going to the theatre, or going for a ride in his carriage, except to show off his new clothes. He had a coat for every hour of the day, and instead of saying, as one might, about any other ruler, “The King’s in council,” here they always said, “The Emperor’s in his dressing room.”

In the great city where he lived, life was always joyous. Every day many strangers came to town, and among them one day came two swindlers. They let it be known they were weavers, and they said they could weave the most magnificent fabrics imaginable. Not only were their colors and patterns uncommonly fine, but clothes made of this cloth had a wonderful way of becoming invisible to anyone who was unfit for his office, or who was unusually stupid.

“Those would be just the clothes for me,” thought the Emperor. “If I wore them I would be able to discover which men in my empire are unfit for their posts. And I could tell the wise men from the fools. Yes, I certainly must get some of the stuff woven for me right away.” He paid the two swindlers a large sum of money to start work at once.

They set up two looms and pretended to weave, though there was nothing on the looms. All the finest silk and the purest old thread which they demanded went into their traveling bags, while they worked the empty looms far into the night. “I’d like to know how those weavers are getting on with the cloth,” the Emperor thought, but he felt slightly uncomfortable when he remembered that those who were unfit for their position would not be able to see the fabric. It couldn’t have been that he doubted himself, yet he thought he’d rather send someone else to see how things were going. The whole town knew about the cloth’s peculiar power, and all were impatient to find out how stupid their neighbors were.

“I’ll send my honest old minister to the weavers,” the Emperor decided. “He’ll be the best one to tell me how the material looks, for he’s a sensible man and no one does his duty better.” So the honest old minister went to the room where the two swindlers sat working away at their empty looms. “Heaven help me,” he thought as his eyes flew wide open, “I can’t see anything at all.” But he did not say so.

Both the swindlers begged him to be so kind as to come near to approve the excellent pattern, the beautiful colors. They pointed to the empty looms, and the poor old minister stared as hard as he dared. He couldn’t see anything, because there was nothing to see. “Heaven have mercy,” he thought. “Can it be that I’m a fool? I’d have never guessed it, and not a soul must know. Am I unfit to be the minister? It would never do to let on that I can’t see the cloth.”

“Don’t hesitate to tell us what you think of it,” said one of the weavers. “Oh, it’s beautiful—it’s enchanting.” The old minister peered through his spectacles. “Such a pattern, what colors!” I’ll be sure to tell the Emperor how delighted I am with it.”

“We’re pleased to hear that,” the swindlers said. They proceeded to name all the colors and to explain the intricate pattern. The old minister paid the closest attention, so that he could tell it all to the Emperor. And so he did.

The swindlers at once asked for more money, more silk and gold thread, to get on with the weaving. But it all went into their pockets. Not a thread went into the looms, though they worked at their weaving as hard as ever.

The Emperor presently sent another trustworthy official to see how the work progressed and how soon it would be ready. The same thing happened to him that had happened to the minister. He looked and he looked, but as there was nothing to see in the loom; he couldn’t see anything. “Isn’t it a beautiful piece of goods?” the swindlers asked him, as they displayed and described their imaginary pattern.

“I know I’m not stupid,” the man thought, “so it must be that I’m unworthy of my good office. That’s strange. I mustn’t let anyone find it out, though.” So he praised the material he did not see. He declared he was delighted with the beautiful colors and the exquisite pattern. To the Emperor he said, “It held me spellbound.”

All the town was talking of this splendid cloth, and the Emperor wanted to see it for himself while it was still in the looms. Attended by a band of chosen men, among whom were his two old trusted officials-the ones who had been to the weavers-he set out to see the two swindlers. He found them weaving with might and main, but without a thread in their looms.

“Magnificent,” said the two officials already duped. “Just look, Your Majesty, what colors! What a design!” They pointed to the empty looms, each supposing that the others could see the stuff.

“What’s this?” thought the Emperor. “I can’t see anything. This is terrible!

Am I a fool? Am I unfit to be the Emperor? What a thing to happen to me of all people!—Oh! It’s very pretty,” he said. “It has my highest approval.” And he nodded approbation at the empty loom. Nothing could make him say that he couldn’t see anything.

His whole retinue stared and stared. One saw no more than another, but they all joined the Emperor in exclaiming, “Oh! It’s very pretty,” and they advised him to wear clothes made of this wonderful cloth especially for the great procession he was soon to lead. “Magnificent! Excellent! Unsurpassed!” were bandied from mouth to mouth, and everyone did his best to seem well pleased. The Emperor gave each of the swindlers a cross to wear in his buttonhole, and the title of Sir Weaver. Before the procession the swindlers sat up all night and burned more than six candles, to show how busy they were finishing the Emperor’s new clothes. They pretended to take the cloth off the loom. They made cuts in the air with huge scissors. And at last they said, “Now the Emperor’s new clothes are ready for him.”

Then the Emperor himself came with his noblest noblemen, and the swindlers each raised an arm as if they were holding something. They said, “These are the trousers, here’s the coat, and this is the mantle,” naming each garment. “All of them are as light as a spider web. One would almost think he had nothing on, but that’s what makes them so fine.”

“Exactly,” all the noblemen agreed, though they could see nothing, for there was nothing to see. “If Your Imperial Majesty will condescend to take your clothes off,” said the swindlers, “we will help you on with your new ones here in front of the long mirror.”

The Emperor undressed, and the swindlers pretended to put his new clothes on him, one garment after another. They took him around the waist and seemed to be fastening something—that was his train—as the Emperor turned round and round before the looking glass. “How well Your Majesty’s new clothes look. Aren’t they becoming!” He heard on all sides, “That pattern, so perfect! Those colors, so suitable! It is a magnificent outfit.”

Then the minister of public processions announced: “Your Majesty’s canopy is waiting outside.” “Well, I’m supposed to be ready,” the Emperor said, and turned again for one last look in the mirror. “It is a remarkable fit, isn’t it?” He seemed to regard his costume with the greatest interest. The noblemen who were to carry his train stooped low and reached for the floor as if they were picking up his mantle. Then they pretended to lift and hold it high. They didn’t dare admit they had nothing to hold.

So off went the Emperor in procession under his splendid canopy. Everyone in the streets and the windows said, “Oh, how fine are the Emperor’s new clothes! Don’t they fit him to perfection? And see his long train!” Nobody would confess that he couldn’t see anything, for that would prove him either unfit for his position, or a fool. No costume the Emperor had worn before was ever such a complete success.

“But he hasn’t got anything on,” a little child said. “Did you ever hear such innocent prattle?” said his father. And one person whispered to another what the child had said, “He hasn’t anything on. A child says he hasn’t anything on.” “But he hasn’t got anything on!” the whole town cried out at last. The Emperor shivered, for he suspected they were right. But he thought, “This procession has got to go on.” So he walked more proudly than ever, as his noblemen held high the train that wasn’t there at all.

This fairy tale can be seen as a parable with a strong moral. It is purposeful. People should not succumb to social pressures which violate reality and one’s own sense of purpose. Many things that are untrue are paraded as reality by people who do not want to seem out of touch with the prevailing world view, no matter how erroneous it is. Think of the totalitarian aspect of political correctness in today’s world.

The riddle of Rumpelstiltskin and the parable of “The Emperor’s New Clothes” are very different. The saving knowledge of the dwarf’s name comes only by chance. The knowledge of the nudity of the emperor comes from a little boy who makes up his own mind and is not overwhelmed by social pressure.

The wide use of riddles and of riddling language in ancient Greek stories and writings, especially by oracles and prophets, is puzzling. Why don’t they speak clearly? Why do their responses provoke a search for meaning? The gods themselves were unreliable, unpredictable, and even criminally vicious, certainly not a force for harmony and stability.

As we have argued in the previous chapter, the world itself, as Hesiod described it, began in chaos. Life is a riddle and the human being becomes obsessed with searching for its meaning. Chaos must be controlled if not completely subdued. The parable of “The Emperor’s New Clothes” is purposeful, and its lesson is purposeful There is no need to search for meaning. The world according to Genesis begins in formlessness (tohu vovohu). But it is purposeful. Tohu vovohu must be shaped, but not controlled as with the Greek chaos. In the biblical view, God is a potter, not a jailor.

For the classicist E. R. Dodds, “Oedipus is a kind of symbol of the human intelligence which cannot rest until it has solved all the riddles—even the last riddle, to which the answer is that human happiness is built on an illusion.”50 Life is without inherent purpose. To the Greek thinker, life itself was a riddle, but not a pleasant one. One could not have real knowledge, nor is there any stability nor security.

In a sense, the world remains the chaos which Hesiod says it was at its beginning. No matter what one accomplished or gained in life, he could never let himself be happy, because tomorrow it might all be gone. This contrasts notably with the Bible’s description of Abraham at the end of his life as being “satisfied with days.” Life is a journey, a great parable. Man does not need to search for meaning in grand activities. Living purposively is sufficient.

How strongly the parable-riddle distinction characterizes the difference in Greek and biblical thought! The implications for contemporary education are significant. Consider the different conceptions of time presented in biblical and Greek writings in regard to two objective time events: 1) people age, and 2) there is day and night. These facts can be expressed in a boring rote manner, or they can be expressed poetically.

The two alternate versions of the sphinx’s question to Oedipus express these realities in riddle form. The first question goes as follows: “Which creature has one voice and yet becomes four-footed and two-footed and three-footed?” Oedipus is reported to have answered: “Man, who crawls on all four as an infant, walks on two legs as an adult, and with the help of a cane as an elder.” This “correct” answer to the riddle represents a cyclical curvilinear view of aging, and life itself; the old is like the young. Oedipus subdues the sphinx through answering its riddle but is “rewarded” for this by being wedded unknowingly to his mother, Jocasta, this incestuous coupling violating and indeed obliterating the line of demarcation between one generation and the next.

This view is dramatically different from that expressed in the Hebrew Bible, where the passage of time is not feared. The passing of the matriarch Sarah illustrates that each phase of life is appreciated on its own terms and is also expressed poetically and more in parable form. “And the life of Sarah was a hundred and seven and twenty years; these were the years of the life of Sarah.”51 Rather than simply stating that Sarah died at the age of 127, Genesis says that Sarah lived 100 years and 20 years and 7 years. The famous commentator Rashi states that she was as free from sin at 100 as she was at 20 (there is no liability for divine punishment until 20) and she was as beautiful at age 20 as at age 7.52

Consider now the second objective reality. Both day and night occur, and they alternate. This second version of the sphinx’s riddle to Oedipus clearly expresses this view. “There are two sisters. One gives birth to the other, and she in turn gives birth to the first. Who are the two sisters?” Here Oedipus is reported to have answered: “Day and night, day giving birth to night, and then night giving birth to day.”53 Day and night are sisters, each replacing the other in an endless repetitive cycle. Although more poetic and creative, the message is that no growth or development occurs. It is the same story, day after day, night after night. It is the same old “same old.”

Compare this to the description of the separation of evening and morning in Genesis 1: “And God saw the light, that it was good; and God divided the light from the darkness. And God called the light Day, and the darkness, he called Night. And there was evening, and there was morning, one day.”54

Let us raise three questions. 1) What is the relationship of evening and morning? 2) Why not speak of night and day instead of evening and morning? 3) Why does the biblical day begin and end with evening? The sentence “And there was evening, and there was morning” appears at the end of each of the first six days of creation and is as poetic as the Greek riddle above. However, it provides a very different message. Life is not a cycle; day and night are not sisters. Rather, each day begins unformed and in darkness and emerges into light. Evening can be seen as the parent of morning, which then grows into evening. That evening then becomes parent to a new morning, not a recycling back to the first morning. This is not simply a rote recitation of a boring fact,55 but instead represents a parable of growth, and is radically different than the cyclical riddle that the sphinx poses to Oedipus. The book of Genesis begins with an account of God’s creation of the world in six days. The first day ends with “And there was evening, and it was morning, one day.”

Although the biblical account portrays the sun and moon as only created on the fourth day, God established an order of time and calendar from the very first day. The world he was creating would be harmonious and orderly, not chaotic. Day and night are not adversaries but are both parts of God’s creation. Life represents not a meaningless cycle but purposeful development.

46. Heiden, Eavesdropping on Apollo, 236–37.

47. Baltuck, Apples from Heaven, 71.

48. From Pullman, Fairy Tales from the Brothers Grimm, 221–25.

49. Andersen, Emperor’s New Clothes.

50. Dodds, On Misunderstanding Oedipus.

51. Gen 23:1.

52. Rashi on Gen 24:1.

53. Theodectes frag. 4, in Snell and Kannicht, eds., Tragocorum Graecorum Fragmenta, vol. 1.

54. Gen 1:4–5.

55. Again see Heiden, Eavesdropping on Apollo, 236–37.