Dear Faithful Futurists:

I’ve been musing over our current multifaceted, intimidated anxiety over artificial intelligence (AI) and particularly what that anxiety says about our culture. Yesterday, after Chris Hein’s presentation on AI and machine learning, more than one member (jokingly, I hope) told me I could someday be replaced by a sermon-bot. Prompts could include the weekly lectionary selections and a few pieces of data concerning to the congregation and—shazam, instant sermon! The temptations are limitless. Using the same logic, Session deliberation could be replaced by a church-management algorithm, and those pesky deacon contacts could be covered quite competently by a compassionate phone message and encouraging note generator. I am certain that AI-written pastor’s letters would be both more readable and relevant than any drivel I produce on a random Monday morning. That is, of course, if our primary value is output.

I remember in third grade thinking that math class was particularly pointless. We had these simple math problems we were supposed to solve, but we were all solving the same problems, each with the same right answer. I suggested to my father that we should be doing this work for some important outcome. Perhaps NASA could outsource their simple arithmetic problems to third graders across the country. At least the output of endless worksheets would contribute to the greater good of the Apollo program, and our time spent would be useful. My dad patiently explained that the purpose of third grade math homework wasn’t the search for answers; times tables had been accurate for years. Elementary school arithmetic wasn’t assigned to generate products and sums, but to train the brains of third graders in skills soon rendered obsolete by the pocket calculator.

Perhaps the most frustrating part of any math assignment was that niggling little instruction: “show your work.” If the answer was right, why did the instructor care how I got there? And it’s that little prompt creating the greatest buzz over the black box of AI—it seems not to show its work. 

Consider going to the gym with the purpose of getting into better shape. There are mechanisms capable of heavier bench-presses, longer planks, even faster distance runs than any human, but we’ve little anxiety over a machine’s out-performance in the gym. The purpose of exercise is not the work itself, but, as with an arithmetic assignment, its value is the change of the worker. Bigger datasets make AI’s output seemingly better, but does more complex and frequent iteration fundamentally improve the machine?

While in Divinity School, a colleague of mine complained to an instructor about his recommendation that pastors should spend time journaling, the spiritual equivalent of showing our work. She felt that to be an unnecessary intrusion on the management of her private life. The instructor shot back that as a pastor, since a congregation entrusts you with the nurture of their spiritual lives, it is not unreasonable for them to expect you to have one. The measure of spirituality, and I would suggest humanity itself, isn’t the quality of our outputs but the transparency of our transformation. 

These musings may be the gasping death-rattle of an ecclesiastical luddite, but I would suggest there remains something valuable in process. The work we do together is important not merely for outcomes, but for the change it renders on both creators and communities. We witness transformation in ourselves and our relationships through error, confession, forgiveness and reconciliation. To humanity is given the right to be wrong and the invitation to show our work and try again. No machine shares that privilege.

Knowing full well I could be replaced, I remain,

With Love,
Jonathan Krogh
Your Pastor