Fables should be taught as fables, myths as myths, and miracles

Host: The evening lay draped over the old library like a veil of solemn amber. The candles flickered inside the room, their flames trembling with the faint breath of history. Through high windows, the dying sunlight poured in — gold melting into dust — illuminating shelves that leaned with the weight of centuries, filled with the bones of thought.

At the center table sat Jack, his grey eyes like flint catching the last glow of fire. Across from him, Jeeny traced the spine of a leather-bound book, her fingers gentle, reverent, as if she were touching something alive. Between them lay a single parchment, yellowed and fragile, the words inked in deep brown:

“Fables should be taught as fables, myths as myths, and miracles as poetic fantasies. To teach superstitions as truths is a most terrible thing. The child mind accepts and believes them, and only through great pain and perhaps tragedy can he be in after years relieved of them.” — Hypatia.

Jeeny: “She was centuries ahead of her time. Imagine saying that in the fourth century — in Alexandria, of all places. It wasn’t just philosophy. It was rebellion wrapped in clarity.”

Jack: “And look where clarity got her — torn apart by a mob of believers. Truth doesn’t survive well when it refuses to flatter comfort.”

Host: The flame nearest to Jack bent sideways with the air, flickering as if uneasy at his words. The library seemed to listen — its walls, its books, its silence — all leaning closer to the tension between two minds about to collide.

Jeeny: “But what she said still stands. We damage children when we teach them to mistake metaphor for fact. The stories meant to enlighten turn into cages. Superstition parades as certainty.”

Jack: “You talk as though myth is poison. But myth is what built the moral spine of civilization. Strip it away and you’re left with numbers, physics, and law — but no awe.”

Jeeny: “Awe doesn’t need deception. You can marvel at the world without lying about its mechanics.”

Jack: “But the lie is what gives it meaning! The fable teaches because it pretends — it makes the invisible visible.”

Jeeny: “Then teach it as pretense. Teach it as symbol. Don’t sell a parable as physics or a dream as doctrine.”

Host: The firelight wavered between them — gold and shadow, warmth and argument. A quiet wind moved through the upper rafters, making the high windows hum with a sound like breath caught between sigh and whisper.

Jack: “You forget the heart, Jeeny. The human heart doesn’t grow on facts — it needs mystery. Hypatia thought knowledge could replace faith. But knowledge without wonder is just arithmetic.”

Jeeny: “And wonder without reason is madness. Tell a child the sea is ruled by gods, and he learns obedience. Tell him it’s shaped by tides, and he learns curiosity. Which one do you think will build a better world?”

Jack: “Curiosity builds — but it also burns. We chase knowledge until we melt the wings that carried us. Hypatia thought she was freeing minds, but she was really tearing down their shelter. Truth doesn’t always protect — sometimes it leaves you naked.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe the world needs to learn to live naked — without illusions. Children deserve honesty, not fairy tales disguised as dogma. It’s cruelty to let them worship shadows and call them light.”

Host: Jeeny’s voice trembled, not from anger, but from conviction — the kind that hurts because it’s personal. Jack leaned back, his jawline set against the flickering flame.

Jack: “You sound like someone who was lied to.”

Jeeny: “We all were. Some of us just never stopped forgiving it.”

Host: The library grew still. Even the pages of the open books seemed to pause mid-breath. The silence wasn’t empty — it was full of ghosts: Hypatia’s, Galileo’s, Socrates’. Minds who once asked too much, and paid for it.

Jeeny: “When you teach superstition as truth, you rob the mind of its birthright — the right to doubt. The right to ask.”

Jack: “And yet, doubt without beauty collapses into cynicism. Do you really want a world of skeptics — no myths, no magic, no stories that hold the soul together?”

Jeeny: “I want a world where stories are told honestly. Where we say, ‘This is a dream meant to teach you something,’ instead of ‘This is a law meant to control you.’”

Jack: “But who decides what’s honest? Every generation calls the last one superstitious. Maybe your truths will look like fables to the next.”

Jeeny: “Then let them — so long as they question. Questioning is the only real inheritance worth leaving.”

Host: The candles guttered, one by one, until only a single flame remained, trembling against the vast dark. Its light fell across Hypatia’s quote, illuminating the ink until it seemed to glow.

Jack reached for the paper, his fingers hovering over the words.

Jack: “She compared the conscious mind to light, and the ignorant to shadow. But maybe superstition isn’t the shadow. Maybe it’s the echo — a way for people who can’t yet grasp truth to feel less small.”

Jeeny: “Then give them truth gently, but give it. Don’t wrap it in illusion and call it mercy.”

Jack: “And what if illusion is the only language they understand?”

Jeeny: “Then teach them a new one.”

Host: The flame flickered higher for a moment — bold, defiant — as if echoing her challenge. Outside, thunder rolled faintly in the distance, a reminder that storms always follow when light insists on showing itself.

Jack’s voice softened now, almost mournful.

Jack: “You know, maybe what Hypatia meant wasn’t just about stories. Maybe she was warning us about inheritance — how fragile a child’s faith can be when built on untruth. The pain of unlearning is worse than ignorance.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The tragedy isn’t belief. It’s betrayal. When you teach a miracle as literal, and the child grows up to see it crumble, you haven’t freed him — you’ve orphaned him.”

Host: The words fell heavy, reverent. The final candle flame stretched high, then bowed — its light wavering like a sigh.

Jack: “So what’s left, then? What do we give them instead?”

Jeeny: “Give them the tools to wonder without worship. Teach them that the stars don’t need gods to be miraculous. That truth can be poetry without pretending to be divine.”

Jack: “A world without false prophets… just open skies.”

Jeeny: “And open minds.”

Host: The thunder grew louder now — not angry, but ancient, like the world clearing its throat. The last candle burned low, its flame reflecting in both their eyes — one grey, one brown — flickering between skepticism and faith, reason and reverence.

In that dim, trembling light, the quote seemed to whisper itself into the room once more, as if Hypatia herself were speaking through the centuries:

Teach children truth clothed in wonder, not wonder clothed as truth.

And when the flame finally died, the darkness that followed didn’t feel empty — it felt earned.

For in that silence, between the ruins of myth and the birth of understanding,
Jack and Jeeny — and perhaps the whole world — learned the most sacred lesson of all:

That truth does not destroy beauty.
It refines it.