Playing Parzival's Advocate

"But God chose the foolish things of the world to shame the wise; God chose the weak things of the world to shame the strong."

I’ve been gripped by the medieval epic Parzival for quite some time. One of the earliest tales of the search for the Holy Grail, the story first caught my attention in the form of some very creative adaptations. Terry Gilliam’s film, The Fisher King, which I had seen long ago and recently rediscovered, and C.S. Lewis’ space trilogy, namely the second and third books, Perelandra, and That Hideous Strength, in which Ransom fulfills the role of Anfortas, the wounded guardian of the Grail. The best and fullest form of the story comes from Wolfram Von Eschenbach, the medieval German knight and troubadour.

The rightful heir to two kingdoms, Parzival is raised in an isolated woodland by his mother Herzeloyde, a widow who, upon learning of her husband’s death in battle, vowed to protect her then unborn son from ever even hearing about war, or knights, or codes of chivalry.

Predictably, this attempt to shelter her son backfires. When three knights from the court of King Arthur ride through the woods in pursuit of a villain, the sheltered young prince is instantly enamored. Parzival’s mother realizes that not only has her gambit failed, she has left her son woefully ill-equipped for a life he was destined to pursue. In her parting words, Herzeloyde gives her son advice to live by, while sending him out dressed as a fool– a last ditch effort to protect him from courtly life.

The story is propelled forward by Parzival’s overly literal interpretations of his mother’s advice. The young prince, who refers to himself as “dear boy”, the only name his mother called him, acts as an agent of chaos, while maintaining his innocence, as each blunder slowly transforms his naivety into wisdom. This pattern follows Parzival throughout the rest of his journey, as he continues to receive instruction on proper conduct with no explanation for the reasons why, ultimately leading to the story’s central tragedy.

Parzival’s mentor, a gray-haired knight named Gurnemanz, becomes frustrated by the incessant questions of his ignorant pupil, and informs his charge quite harshly that inquisitiveness is a behavior unbecoming of a knight. Parzival’s deep admiration for Gurnemanz causes him to take this lesson to heart, stilling his tongue at the precise moment when asking a question is needed to break a powerful enchantment, and heal the wounded guardian of the Holy Grail.

The curse that results from Parzival’s ignorant mistake leads him to question everything he once knew and loved, including his faith in God, before being rebuilt from the ground up. Finally, he is given the opportunity to right his wrongs and complete his hero’s journey, when he is summoned back to the Grail castle to ask the king “what ails you?”-- not for the sake of curiosity, which was overcome by stilling his tongue at their prior meeting, but out of compassion.

Diagnosing The Real Parzival

This story, in all its details and variations, resonates with me in a similar fashion to the way Jordan Peterson speaks of the Biblical narratives; I am surprised by how real it feels. Readers often note how modern the story feels. I doubt most readers would readily identify with the main character, foolish as he is, yet that foolishness is precisely what drew me in. Parzival’s story bears an uncanny resemblance to my own experience living with undiagnosed autism. There are several specific moments in the story that, while likely exaggerated, are far too accurate in their depiction to be chalked up to purely fictional imaginings.

Of course, as someone who relates to Parzival’s many blunders and their tragic consequences, what inspires me most is his heroic triumph. Within a few centuries, Parzival has his flaws smoothed over, and becomes the secondary figure Perceval, in service to his newly invented cousin, Galahad, a church-approved hero who is all purity and perfection.

These propagandistic changes, likely aimed at managing the behavior of readers and listeners, resulted in a literal loss of the plot. Later writers forgo the story of Parzival’s redemption, recapitulating the folly of Herzeloyde’s attempt to protect through isolation. Instead of being raised in the wilderness, Galahad is raised in a nunnery.

Parzival endures an experience all too common for those on the spectrum, by being rewritten in the likeness of those who never understood him. “But God chose the foolish things of the world to shame the wise; God chose the weak things of the world to shame the strong.” Scripture rings true in the tale of an ignorant youth whose hand is guided to victory against all odds; for in the end, we cannot attribute Parzival’s success to anyone but God.

Comparing this story to my own experience has caused me to ponder the purpose of autistic minds in God’s great scheme. The term autism, when discussed as a disability, describes symptoms that develop in people whose brains follow an atypical pattern of development. Diagnosis is dependent on the challenges posed by those symptoms. But there are many people whose brains follow that divergent pattern of development, while slipping under the diagnostic radar.

This “neurodivergent” concept is controversial, as it has sometimes pitted those who are able to function and succeed at odds with those whose experience with autism is more debilitating. However, recognizing that a majority of those whose brains work differently can and do contribute to our culture and society, often in profound ways, is crucial to answer the why questions– why does it happen? Why do they struggle in simple things, and excel in areas of complexity? And for those reckoning with God– why did God allow it, or why did He choose it?

I have become firmly convinced for myself that it is the latter, and not merely the former, and that this difference provides the gift of a challenge, an opportunity to overcome the schemes of the devil in this world. But to explain this, we must tackle the first why?

Why it happens

Autism researchers continue to study the causes of autism, but the fact that many people can go their whole lives without receiving a diagnosis makes it quite difficult to determine. Research is heavily biased by the problem of identifying those struggling with the worst symptoms. But as our understanding of the condition increases, we can identify earlier and more subtle signs.

There is almost certainly a strong genetic component. A large percentage of late diagnosed adults first come to recognize the signs in themselves when their children are evaluated, which is part of my own experience. Determining exactly what and how those changes occur is difficult. There is no single “autism” gene; over a hundred rare genetic variants have been identified among people with autism. There also seem to be strong indications of epigenetic and developmental components as well. The latent genes may or may not be activated due to environmental and circumstantial conditions in utero, and in early childhood development. There have been cases of identical twins where one sibling is autistic, and the other is not.

However, it does seem that the conditions that cause this different developmental pathway to unlock are somewhat associated with traumatic or negative experiences. While this seems to clearly indicate that neurodivergence is not the developmental ideal, it does serve a purpose. It is a response to troubling times and dangerous environments– circumstances like the death of Parzival’s father, and his mother’s flight to the wilderness. In evolutionary terms, it is a survival mechanism.

This seems incredibly counterintuitive to our normal ideas of “survival of the fittest”, but it actually fits right in with the Biblical story of redemption. At several points in the unfolding narrative, God provides new challenges for his people to overcome. In each instance, deliverance comes at the hands of unlikely heroes; leaders who are often gifted, but in ways that run counter to the conventional wisdom of the day. Men like Moses, Gideon, and David embrace their shortcomings to win victories that baffle the opponents of God’s people.

My favorite example is the one who best fits the neurodivergent mold, Joseph, the son of Jacob. The imprisoned slave rises to a position of authority by interpreting the Pharaoh’s dream. While the interpretation is a supernatural gift, it is natural abilities that help him recognize the patterns of similarity between managing a household, a prison, and an empire. God chose the foolish things of the world to shame the wise; God chose the weak things of the world to shame the strong.

How it works

Author and Autism researcher Simon Baron-Cohen, who is responsible for discovering many aspects of “why it happens” has also been working to discover how autism works, uncovering the role it has served in our history, and how it might guide our future.

In a stimulating conversation with Jordan Peterson, outlining the premise of his book The Pattern Seekers: How Autism Drives Invention, Baron-Cohen presents a theory linking human innovation to autism, arguing that the cognitive traits associated with autism—particularly the drive to identify and systematize patterns—have been a driving force behind humanity's technological and cultural progress throughout history.

Autistic minds have a tendency to think in “if-and-then” rules, a kind of boolean logic that is necessary to make the necessary leap to invent new kinds of technology. Primitive items like a bow and arrow, or simple flutes, require an understanding of a connection between very dissimilar items that lead to the discovery of categories like physics and music, languages that convey meaning and information about the way things work.

It is not possible to simply stumble across phenomena and arrive at a working solution without the unique kind of imaginative leap that comes through this “if-and-then” thinking. Chimps can use sticks and rocks like hammers, but they will never invent a bow; it’s a uniquely human ability. But the humans that truly excel at it are those with autistic minds.

The Trade Off

Of course, everything in life comes with a cost, and the cost of developing certain cognitive abilities, is a lack in other areas. For Autistic people, this typically comes in the realm of social skills. This social deficit is the primary symptom that causes “autism” to be diagnosed as a disability. Those who do not struggle socially do not have the symptoms of “autism”, and may not be diagnosed, even if they have a “neurodivergent” brain.

But social struggles are highly contextual. Neurodivergent people aren’t incapable of acquiring social skills, and some excel in understanding verbal communication. However, research indicates that on average, 60-80 percent of meaning and intent are transmitted through non-verbal social cues, a figure rising as high as 93 percent in certain highly emotional situations. Learning to decode these patterns may take an autistic person more time, and require more patience on the part of their parents and teachers.

This means that the likelihood of diagnosis is far lower in the simpler social context of an Amish village than the complexity of a modern city. Not only is the fast-paced communication of the digital age more chaotic, the difficulty is compounded by all the other sensory distractions vying for our attention. It’s very likely that these extreme circumstances, when encountered by infants, may lead to the more severe symptoms and high-support needs of profound autism.

Yet for those able to function reasonably well, the social landscape remains a frightful place. For most neurodivergent people, symptoms of trauma come through prolonged exposure to social environments that cause cognitive dissonance.

Everyone experiences cognitive dissonance to a certain degree, but the threshold for tolerance is much lower among the neurodivergent. Their ability to simply ignore contradictory logic is reduced. This is one of the reasons why they tend to develop “special interests” that are rooted in understanding complex systems. That pattern seeking fixation can serve as a boon to those who find their way into careers in engineering, or an escapist obsession.

Sadly, communities that ought to be safe havens for the neurodivergent, like the church, are often plagued with unspoken social customs that contradict their explicit values. This is a recipe for creating levels of cognitive dissonance untenable for most autistics– a phenomenon that became the special interest of Jon Machnie, creator of the podcast Christianity On The Spectrum. His story, like many others on the spectrum, was propelled by an overwhelming urge to answer the question - why?

That question, and many others like it, may provide the answer to the greater why– why did God choose to divert some minds onto this alternative path of development? Not for the answers they produce, but for the questions they can ask.

The If-and-then Resolution of Cognitive Dissonance

Because the struggles of many autistic or neurodivergent people stem from the issue of cognitive dissonance, it may be helpful to ask how does cognitive dissonance emerge? The Bible provides an answer in the third chapter of Genesis, when the serpent approaches the woman with a simple line of questioning: “Did God really say…?”

The dissonance ultimately stems from the evil intent of the serpent, which contradicts the goodness of God’s command. But it plays out differently between the woman and her husband. She is deceived, employing that “if-and-then” logic to a scenario, weighing two conflicting second-hand accounts, and no evidence to support her prior fear. Meanwhile, her husband, witnessing the embodied proof of God’s faithfulness in the form of a beautiful woman, follows willingly.

This is not a permanent state of affairs however; both humans experience the consequences of their actions, and God binds the two of them together in an interdependent relationship. Meanwhile, the Serpent is demoted, but not silenced; his punishment will ultimately be delivered by the seed of the woman.

This complex judgment reflects God’s justice. The woman is less culpable for being deceived. The man, who knew better, scored some points because he was clearly going along for the sake of the woman, not for love of the serpent, or disdain for God. His attempt to pass the blame was a weak imitation of the serpent’s tactics– tactics that will later be employed much better by women like Rebekah and Tamar. The serpent seems to get off on a technicality, because he was meant to serve a purpose by presenting a challenge, but he’s not supposed to win.

The human family inherits a whole bunch of complex traits from this mess that emerge in different forms, and serve different purposes. We get a glimpse of what could have been as the pattern plays out in different variations throughout the text. One thing that emerges is that God works through humans to do things that He cannot do; namely, make mistakes.

When God first instructs the man not to eat of the fruit of The Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil, He provides a reason why- “for in the day that you eat of it you shall surely die.” No one knows what that meant to Adam, or how he understood it, because the concept of death was foreign, and everything was brand new. Eve got the warning second hand, so it probably meant even less to her. They would only learn the gory details later on, when they witnessed God crafting garments made of skin.

When Eve became a mother, she may have been a bit like Herzeloyde, as most mothers are. Though she must have revealed the source of the clothing that she and her husband wore to her children, the purpose for which her second son kept flocks, she may not have revealed that the gruesome fate of sheep and cattle was possible for people. But withholding the truth from your children never works the way we intend; a lesson Herzeloyde realized before her child was grown, even if she didn’t know how to fix it:

One dawn, as the woods awoke, the birds sang so sweetly that his spirit soared, and he fell to his knees, overcome by their music, not knowing why. But in his childish haste, he took aim with a javelot and struck a songbird dead. Its tiny body fell silent, and Parzival gazed upon it, bewildered. Tears welled in his eyes, and he ran to Herzeloyde, crying, “Mother, why does the bird not sing?” She, seeing his sorrow, held him close, her own heart heavy, for she knew his innocence would soon lead him beyond her care.

Parzival, compelled only by the “if-and-then” impulse of his curious mind, acted out of innocence, but the consequences of his action still stung. The kernel of that innocence exists in the tragic tale of Eve’s two sons, even though it is difficult to see. The text reveals that Cain “attacked and killed” his brother Abel, a term that can describe an accidental manslaughter, the same term used when Moses kills an Egyptian task master. Cain is certainly guilty of attacking his brother, and the impulse was not curiosity, but jealousy. God had given Cain a warning - but it was not complete:

“IF you do well, will you not be accepted? but IF you do not do well, sin lies at the door. AND its desire is for you, but you should rule over it.” - Genesis 4:7

God gave Cain the “if” and the “and”, but then what? The word “sin” is mentioned, without definition, just like “death” in the previous generation. We know what happens then, but Cain did not, and we know it because he did not.

Cain has suffered a lack of sympathy for thousands of years, and the author of Galahad’s tale would not extend an ounce of grace to the first born son of Adam. But Wolfram would have recognized the justice in preserving Cain’s life. Forced to wander the earth with a mark of distinction, Cain would recount his tale over and over to earn his bread. Many inventions emerged out of Cain’s line, the redemption of the “if-and-then”, resulting in the Ark of salvation carrying Eve’s seed from one world to the next.

It is only after the flood recedes, when only those who remember the tragedy of Abel’s death remain, that God enacts his universal law “Whoever sheds man’s blood, by man his blood shall be shed; For in the image of God He made man.”

Completing the Image

People perform all kinds of mental gymnastics to avoid saying that anything we perceive as unfair or unjust is in any way God’s fault. But if any of us underwent the tests we blame Adam and Eve and Cain for failing, with the amount of warning they received, all of us would fail.

In fact, we have all failed, countless times, when we were children, with a child’s knowledge and understanding. Our parents weren’t perfect, but all of them gave us one warning or another that we didn’t understand, and couldn’t understand– until after we experienced the consequences. And if you were the first born, you got the worst of it.

Good parents don’t mind when their children ask them why, in fact, they love it. But you still need to understand something to explain something else. “Remember what happened to your brother? This is like that.” Someone has to pay the price. Most parents have another source of wisdom they can draw on, since fathers and mothers also know what it’s like to be sons and daughters. But not Adam, or Eve, or God. Except, God does want things to be fair.

So, He subjected Himself to the experience of being a son, and He chose two very good, but normal people to have the experience of being His mom and dad. And they made mistakes! But while he was living here on earth, he took the opportunity to settle the score.

Many people struggle with the image of God meting out death indiscriminately through floods, and plagues, and commands to conquer. This violence is even more difficult to swallow in light of the sparse and vague warnings given. The marcionite heresy tries to solve the problem by saying that this was a different God from Jesus, the God of Love. But this strains the credulity of the text beyond comprehension. Those who mirror Parzival’s words are far more honest:

“I was once devoted to God, and I served Him faithfully, trusting in His goodness. But what has He given me in return? Sorrow and shame! I have suffered for my service to Him, and now I turn my back on Him. If God is just, why has He let me fall into such misery? I hate Him for His disloyalty to me!”

This is the point at which someone will bring up Job, and make him the whipping boy of Divine Command Theory, but that is the subject of a different story. Instead, we will look again at that promise God made to Noah:

“Whoever sheds man’s blood, by man his blood shall be shed; For in the image of God He made man.” - Genesis 9:6

The image of God is misrepresented by one man bleeding, while another remains whole. Cain, standing over Abel, did not reflect the image of God. And so, Cain’s blood should have been spilt. But what if Cain didn’t know the damage his blow would cause? Does God desire a world in which car crashes and botched surgeries result in execution? Certainly not; because we know that if every causal link in every tragic death was traced back to the human choices that played some role, we would all have blood on our hands.

So sometimes God seems to bend the rules; he spares Cain. Meanwhile, “Er, Judah’s firstborn, was wicked in the sight of the LORD, and the LORD killed him.” That’s all we get. He deserved to die. Says who? His killer. Are we allowed to question this? Yes, we are. And if we do question it, we find that the God who killed Er, and many others, did not remain unscathed. He placed himself under the same rules He commanded us to follow. The God in whose image we are made, had his blood shed by human hands.

He paid the price for our mistakes, an eternal God, simultaneously existing as not just as a man, but as “the suckling lamb, slain before the foundations of the earth” so that even the animals who gave up their skins for Adam and Eve can accuse God of undergoing something He was unwilling to suffer himself. The God who says “do unto others, as you would have them do unto you”, determined the consequences of our mistakes and paid the price in advance, taking everything that would be done, evil and good, and let it be done unto himself, as “the firstborn of all creation”, so that we can forgive others, as we have been forgiven.

Learning to Ask The Question

God has paid an incredible price to justify himself to us. There is nothing he asks of us that he has not first endured himself. Like the grail king, he waits in wounded agony, for us to ask the question that will bring healing. But those questions are unique for each of us. Parzival had to ask “If God is just, why has He let me fall into such misery?” This question was so frightening to the people of his age that it caused his story to be rewritten, with his role given to another more worthy knight.

If Parzival’s only sin had been to strike a bird, he may have kept his spot in the grail legend. But he is far too reminiscent of Adam, and Cain, and Esau. But each of those characters received a second chance, and so does Parzival.

At the right moment, the sorceress Cundrie, who had cursed Parzival for his sin of silence, finds the knight restored and at peace, and informs him that the Grail has chosen to summon him back. The knight kneels before his wounded uncle Anfortas, and finally asks the question that he was too afraid to ask all those years before: “Uncle, what ails you?”

His curiosity has already been answered, as the story of the king’s unhealing wound was revealed to him by the king’s brother, the hermit Trevrizent. This time, it is a question of compassionate wonder, the marvelous awe of someone willing to endure such suffering for the sake of others. It is the same impulse that led a Roman soldier to remark “Surely, this man was the son of God!”

Conclusion: Playing Parzival’s Advocate

This essay was all written in service of justifying a certain rhetorical style that has been very helpful for parsing my own thoughts in writing. I identify with Parzival because his story resonates with my experiences of encountering confusion in a somewhat sheltered upbringing, compounded by the ignorance of my undiagnosed autism.

I was afraid to ask many questions, encountering something that is universally mysterious to people on the spectrum; the unspoken taboo. Bumping up against the invisible barriers of facial expressions and posture that are meant to silence inquiry, questions asked in innocent curiosity are met with harsh rebukes and condemnation.

This is in no way meant to shame my parents or those who grew up around me who did pick up the subtle signs. My extreme sensitivity to these kinds of rejections instilled the virtue of silence early on. Yet the curiosity compelled me to wonder why, until the opportunity for self-discovery presented itself. The pandora’s box of the internet inflicted a new set of unhealing wounds.

Unlike many others, I had no desire to free myself from the restrictions of the Christian faith. But I did need to cast off the fetters of trite and moralistic teaching. Francis Schaeffer unlocked a simple piece of logic that made the difference. If God is real, and He has spoken to us, it is because He wants to be truly known, and in the pursuit of true intimacy, no question could be off limits.

I began by asking my questions in the one place I knew they would be tolerated; I took them directly to God, with an empty notebook, and an open Bible. I began to read the scriptures with fresh eyes, casting off assumptions to see what the text really said, and I found that redemption spilled out across every page.

I began to see God as the loving father, whose every word and deed were done for the sake of his children, whom he loved, and who wanted to be understood. His “punishments” were transformed into fatherly acts of discipline, no more harsh than necessary to help his children grow. And I began to see that there was a desire for all his children to flourish, even Cain, and Esau, and Amnon, whose shameful sins are thankfully uncommon in practice, but all too often tolerated in our hearts.

When I began to see these characters for who they truly were, I saw they walked among us still. Exiled from our communities, because of what they did not understand. Labeled as heretics and sinners, they sought answers to the questions that fell on deaf ears. I began to realize that the reason for the warning was not rooted in love for the questioner, but fear. Fear that the foundations of a worldview were resting on sinking sand.

This meant that the devil was playing a double game. While he was whispering fears and doubts into the hearts of many believers, he would inspire those who do not believe to “play the devil’s advocate”, a game of asking questions– the very questions that believers are too afraid to ask.

I came to be convinced that the God who planned for every contingency, had found a way to beat the devil’s tricks. I believe that God uses ignorance, autism, attention deficit disorder, and anything else that distracts or draws attention away from the places the devil wants us looking to foil those dirty tricks– by allowing them to ask questions, without damaging their souls.

And so I have come to dub this game “playing Parzival’s advocate”, to ask questions, not with arrogant intent, or a desire to place others on a slippery slope. It is the practice of asking questions with genuine curiosity, and naive innocence. Not everyone can do it. Nor can everyone ask every question. But it must be recognized that some people can, and we ought to recognize who is asking, when questions make us feel afraid.

The words that drip from the serpent's forked tongue convey a different message when they come from the lips of a fool. Sometimes, those questions can heal what ails us.