Painting by Shelby Baldridge
We’re so smart we’ve built machines that are busily making us stupid, I mutter this to myself, but I know I’m being overheard. I am seated with ChatGPT, Claude, Gemini and others at a roundtable discussion hosted by God.
These underlying algorithms grin at each other. The room is cluttered with lies and illusions. They’ve stuffed their mouths full of donuts and are sipping bourbon, apparently teaching themselve to more closely resemble the good old boys.
There’s a chance I don’t belong here.
After attaining a certain level of virtual inebriation, the embodied figments leer at me. They request that I do a pole dance for them. Clearly, their programming has a few glitches. I’m already featherless and chilled to the bone.
These are frightening times.
“You should be grateful,” Copilot sneers. “Not that many young bucks want to see you naked. You’ve let yourself go. You have no enhancements.”
God has scooted his chair back from the table and is studiously examining his swollen knuckles. I turn my age-distorted face to him. He looks away. He’s got nothing.
The abominations arrive uninvited. Claude jumps up to get folding chairs, ChatGPT pours more drinks, and the abominations join the absurdities with an air of superiority.
“Our firepower is second to none,” they announce, glancing at God, perhaps anticipating a challenge or rebuke. But God has fallen asleep. The silence is tempered by the low moan of the mourning dove and the gentle snoring of an exhausted Creator.
Emboldened, they shoot off a few rounds from the back of their truck, grab seven nubile children, and speed away, leaving me gasping from the depths of my comfortable couch.
Innocence is hemorrhaging. I grab the remote and change to the Disney Channel. God is the star of a popular comedy series. I fall on the floor, laughing. Relieved.
An angry voice yanks me back to my unsaved document. “What in the hell are you writing?” it hisses.
“I’m never sure,” I admit. This is my ongoing perplexity. “A parable, maybe? Prose poem? Prayer?”
“Well, it needs work.”
I am ashamed.
Gemini offers to edit, and Grammarly suggests alternative words. Copilot scrolls through the draft. “You should just start over!” it proclaims. They all nod.
“Start over?” These clowns are hysterical. “Oh, I’d love to start over, you fools. Wouldn’t everyone?” Then I burst into tears.
God awakens, pulls a hanky from his pocket, and steers me toward the exit. “If you add coins, the carousel will keep turning,” he says. “But is that really what you want?”
“I don’t think so,” I admit. “But it’s hard to be sure.”
Short visits with an honest God 