The Parable of the Broken Clock Maker

The old clock maker loved his clocks as much as any father could possibly love his children.

Each was formed in his heart before being realized on his work bench. Components were hand-built from the finest possible materials. Each clock case was painstakingly hand-carved from the finest block of wood. Then each clock was expertly assembled, by hand, by the skilled hands of the clock maker. After the springs and pulleys and gears and levers were sealed inside the clock, the clockmaker would paint a clock face on the front of each clock—sometimes all 12 numbers, sometimes just 12, 3, 6, and 9, and sometimes just a 12—it was really a matter of artistic license. To complete the construction of his clocks, the old artisan would paint the clock hands onto the clock face. Like the other markings on the clock face, the time he painted was a matter of license. After all, it didn’t really matter anyway, the clockmaker reasoned, each clock would get to be right two times every day.

Likewise, the clocks loved the clockmaker as much as children could possibly love a parent. Because they loved him, they trusted that the time painted on their face offered an accurate representation of what the time really was.

On occasion, one clock would notice that another clock nearby had a different time painted on its front, and this sometimes led to awkward confrontations. But the clocks realized that they could avoid such unpleasantries by sticking by those clocks with whom they shared a similar time. Limiting association to those with similar times painted on them had the added benefit of making each clock that much more confident that it was accurate. “How can I be wrong when all the clocks around me tell the same time?”

From time to time, a clock or two would realize that it had all the requisite internal mechanisms to be able to calculate the time for itself. Whenever this happened, the other clocks, regardless of what time was painted on their front, would set aside their differences, and unite in their disregard for those with the audacity to ignore their own painted faces. “It doesn’t matter what time is painted on your face,” they would condescendingly agree, “just so long as you assume that the time is correct without checking against the time keeping apparatus that the clock maker put in you.”

Then one day the old clock maker had to pop out for a bit. “I’m doing some reno’s in the house,” he explained to the clocks, “and when I get back, I’m going to decorate the place with all the clocks that tell the correct time.”

While he was gone, the clocks debated amongst themselves as to what the correct time was. Those painted with a “two o’clock,” for example, felt certain that it was indeed two o’clock, else why would the old clock maker have painted that time on their faces. Those painted with a “three o’clock” felt equally certain that it must be three o’clock, else why would the old clock maker have painted that time on their faces. The “four o’clock” clocks felt equally certain that it had to be four o’clock, and for precisely the same reasons. And so on. The only thing that they could agree on was that even though they told different times, and consequently most of them were necessarily wrong, at least they were not as wrong as the clocks calculating the time using their built in timekeeping mechanisms.

When the old craftsman returned, he gathered together all his beloved clocks, and took them outside. There was a large fire burning with the waste from the renovations. As it turns out, it was about 9:30. The clock maker inspected each clock, and if it had learned to tell the time by the internal clockwork mechanisms that he had designed them with, or if he had painted anything other than a 9:30 on its face, then the loving old clock maker lovingly chucked that clock into the fire.

Come to think of it, one might be forgiven for not believing that the clock maker loved his clocks all that much.