AutoDoxa
A fictional short story about the not too distant future.
It was a crisp, reflective morning at the city’s newest convention centre. Like a gaming PC booting up its neons gold and white, the mostly glass building shimmied above the conference’s early set up team.
By the time Pastor TS arrived by self driven maxi taxi from his hotel with a group of bouncing church leaders, AutoDoxa was at full tilt. The inaugural symposium bringing together the latest in church and nonprofit tech systems buzzed and popped like a Gen Alpha start-up office sending their Robo-butler off to make burgers. In the large lobby, several of the latest robots handed out showbags, gadgets and programs. The 8,000 tickets had apparently been eaten up like Silicon Valley once ate up the humanoid car industry. TS had initially felt surprised to be included—bewildered even. With a church of 600 members, his was on the smallest end of those allowed to apply for tickets. Having filled out several surveys and shared some church statistics, he had won two tickets.
Won was admittedly a funny word for something that cost $4000 per person. His colleague, Pastor Jay, incandescent as he was for church related new-tech, was the obvious choice for the other pass. He’d jumped at the chance and paid his part without blinking. He was arriving direct from the airport any minute through the newly built Cityloop which carried commuters at high speeds in underground pods direct to hundreds of locations around the city. Although he’d used it, TS was still freaked out by the advancements. So he had left his younger colleague to make his own way in.
Pastor TS stood in the large foyer scanning the dozens of stalls before him. “Well, here we are,” he either thought or mumbled to himself, he couldn’t tell for the volume of chatter in the room. Trade stalls and salespeople stretched out to his left and right. Delegates were already glued to presentations by amplified marketers. Again unsure if he was speaking aloud or not, TS offered, “Let’s figure this out.”
He made his way to the stalls on his right. The first few were spruiking technologies that he’d already seen doing the rounds in some of the Mega Churches near his home. Facial recognition for taking the congregation’s attendance on Sundays; personalised postcard printing for members to take home an illustration from special events based on their response; AI worship generators for home cell groups which could listen in to the discussion and produce a customised song at the end of the night; and automated light dimmers with music syncing that responded to what was taking place on the platform and changed the audio-visuals in response.
TS walked past all those stalls to make his way to a system some of his elders had been researching and wanted him to investigate: the Easery—a play on eatery and easy. Like most of the new-tech, the fully automated kitchen assistant was not cheap. But it could be paid for by church members purchasing annual or monthly subscriptions. It was one of the first to be designed for nonprofits. He’d seen videos of it preparing and distributing communion for huge gatherings; serving up hotdogs to youth groups; making dinners at soup kitchens; and doing thousands of coffees at large conferences.
The bigger models offered a complete catering package—shopping, preparing, serving—for events of up to 5000 with 40 hours notice. The smaller ones could do the same service for groups of up to 500 people with just 12 hours notice. TS had seen one of the smaller models at a local pastors’ meet up and the food—pancakes with butter and syrup, served with a choice of drink—was better than most take away options.
The marketer was a tattooed guy in his mid-30s. He looked like a hipster and drank a latte that TS had watched the machine hand to him.
“This latest generation OS,” he said, “communicates with the major supermarket chains—and even some independent ones—to ensure a seamless click and collect can be arranged. It syncs with the all the main self-driving delivery vans in most capital cities around the world, to find your produce, and bring it to your ministry centre. When the food arrives your very own assistance bot will ferry the items into the kitchen. By the way, these little guys are specially designed for cleaning up clutter from around your church during the week as well, and can leaflet the chairs in a large auditorium within 20 minutes—up to 45 minutes quicker than a team of 10 volunteers could do the same job.”
At that point a small robot which looked like a miniature artillery tank with an open crate on its top, made its way before the watching audience towards a pile of grocery items. Two arms jutted from its sides and collected grocery items one by one, securing them in the crate.
The hipster continued: “From there little skip as I like to call him, brings everything to the kitchen in his pouch—just in time for this guy, whom I have named spidey, to take over.”
He pointed at a large robot, anchored to the bench top. Eight arms moved to unload the produce from the smaller machine.
“The main feature of the Easery system of course are the distinctive food prep arms which will do all the work for you. It is much like Israel’s most holy place—no humans allowed.”
That earned a chuckle from the 20 or so listening in.
He continued: “These arms here are equivalent to 10 or 15 volunteers working non-stop. Imagine the time for relationships people could get back in their program with this guy around. He opens packaging, slices, dices, crushes, juices, weighs, mixes, and kneads everything to make food from a selection of 20,247 recipes. And that number grows daily. Spidey cooks for me most days and I’ve only had a small fraction of the options. Let me put it this way. When you get yourself one of these, you’ll never consider a potluck meet up again. Now let me say a few things about pricing. Some people get concerned that the subscription is…”
TS’s focus was punctured by a hand on his back. It was pastor Jay.
“I thought I’d find you here,” Jay said, beaming and leaning in to a side hug. “Man I gotta say right upfront,” he continued, “thank you so much. The amount of times I’ve watched videos on most of the things in this room—it’s insane to really be standing here.”
“Of course Jay,” TS said, smiling. “But I think you technically got yourself here.“
“I’m telling you. I’m like a teenager in an Apple Store in the naughties. Look at my hand. I’m literally shaking. And I’ve only had two coffees so far.” Without pausing Jay continued, “Are you heading to the morning session?” He gestured to the escalator.
“Ah, I actually … I don’t know. When is it?” TS realised he’d hardly looked at the program but had assumed the conference would be self-evident somehow.
“Starts in five. If we want to go, we should move now.”
TS nodded and the two men spun and left behind the now quickly-moving spider arms as they chopped carrots and potatoes into precise rounds.
They walked into the auditorium which was filling rapidly. A robot usher looked directly at them. He smiled softly and the corners of his human face scrunched into crows’ feet. “Hi brothers, up and to your right you’ll find the best seats still available. Enjoy the gathering.”
TS had begun moving up the stairs, until Jay grabbed his elbow. “Hey watch this.” Drawing his colleague back to the robot, he said: “Got a glimpse of today’s session for us?”
“For sure,” the still-smiling usher said. “The household of the Lord is a most blessed place to be. So give your all, and you’ll be living your best life now and into the future.”
“How about a verse for me too?” Jay continued.
“Of course, I love your passion. Psalm 84:10 is my verse for you. ‘Better is one day in your courts than a thousand elsewhere; I would rather be a doorkeeper in the house of my God than dwell in the tents of the wicked.’”
”Thank you sir,” Jay said, ecstatic. “But who am I thanking?”
“I’m Enoch. I hope I’ll live as long as the original Enoch lived for. Then again, if I could walk with the Lord like him, I’d be as happy as anyone ever could be. I imagine I’ll just be getting started on my earthly pilgrimage by year 365. After all, I’m a digital-assistant of the people of God—here to automate glory. Perhaps I’ll make it through into the renewal of all things. What do you think?”
“Whoa, you’re a deep thinker,” Jay said, “Thanks for your time.”
“Who am I speaking with?” the bot continued.
“I’m Pastor Jay, this is Pastor TS.”
“Well gentlemen—it’s a pleasure to meet you. It’s so great to have you here. I’ll pray for you as you take your seats.”
Not long after the men were seated, the presentation began. The lights dimmed, the sound of a strange chord filled the air—at once symphonic and synthetic. One huge screen spanning the whole length of the stage lit up.
The display showed a video of a densely vegetated forest with a mist hovering upon it. There wasn’t a musician in sight, but a full-bodied, atmospheric sound began filling the arena. A pulse began reverberating 1-2-3-4 through pastor TS’ chest. Gentle lights in the aisles and on the ceiling gave off a soft turquoise glow that faded yellowish at the edges—like the lights of an airplane cabin before the simulated breakfast time. The audience began to clap in time with the beat. Jay looked at TS and began to bob his head. He leaned into TS’s ear, “I was listening to the pre conference interviews. The structure of that chord and the tempo of the beat was developed from feedback spanning 1.6 million people on every continent. Its frequency is constructed to illicit the greatest joy and anticipation in the vast majority of cultures. Can you feel it?”
TS could feel it. It was like a stupor coming at him which he couldn’t resist. He gave in and closed his eyes. He was happy. “What is this world we live in? This is like a drug.”
Three robots walked onto the screen’s image—two males and two females. In truth, TS didn’t know they were robots. Not for certain. But it was the kind of moment one would expect robots. They turned and faced the audience, and one of the males gestured with open palms.
“Welcome brothers and sisters to the inaugural AutoDoxa symposium. We have toured this show now through North and South America, and through several African and Asian countries. We are so happy to be here in your beautiful city on such a beautiful day.”
The room was engulfed with applause, even though TS sensed that some noise had been added to emerge from speakers in the flooring beneath them. He’d heard of that feature.
“Our goal,” said the female presenter, “is that in every church, in every home, in every neighbourhood and city, people can experience the glory of the Almighty. We believe Providence has given us the exact range of tools to see such a thing happen. It’s literally up to us to automate worship and praise for the glory of God.”
Some cheers went up, followed by some more applause.
“Brothers and sisters, come now and behold your God.”
With that the screens faded to black and the room went pitch dark. When the lights returned, a band was spread across the platform. All four robots were among the musicians. The female presenter was seated at an electric drum kit and counted in along with the still beating pulse—1-2-3-4. The other female was clutching a microphone at the centre of the platform. The two men held guitars and stood before microphones, joining their instruments with the rest of the band—a keyboardist, a DJ, a percussionist, a bass player, and a man hovering above an effects table. Together they began and a wall of sound enveloped the room.
The songs had everyone moving. Between the first two songs, the robot playing lead guitar prayed. It was both reverent and familiar-sounding, and could have been any human leader. In fact, pastor TS still couldn’t be sure the figure wasn’t human.
After 15 minutes, the music bracket ended. A sign on the screen listed the prominent AIs that had written each of the songs. It read like a roll call of the biggest names in Big Tech.
A man walked onto the centre of the platform—skinny, and dressed in fitted black attire. He had to be human, TS assumed. His voice resonated smoothly and consistently through the large room, and his face beamed onto large screens. No microphone was visible in his hand, or around his head.
“I think he has an audio-implant,” said Jay.
“I was wondering that,” TS offered.
TS had seen videos of the tiny metal implants. They were inserted into the skin of the upper neck of those who did a fair amount of public speaking. The procedure took just 10 minutes by a trained surgeon. While it was expensive, it was supposed to be painless and most said they never noticed the device in day to day life (except for the one business coach who died in the early days of the system’s popularity from a battery bleed). Audio-implants could sync with any sound system that could take a wireless mic and produce a clearer output than anything else on the market. In fact, hearing the speaker, TS felt he was talking to someone across the table of his living room.
The man explained the history of AutoDoxa. After giving a spiel on his 10 year vision, he waved his arm, and a swarm of tiny drones—each no bigger than a golf ball and each carrying a small black package—blanketed the room. Within a minute, every seat with a person in it had a drone and package hovering above it.
“Please take hold of the gift above you,” he said.
Every hand in the room went up to collect the item dangling from each drone. Within moments, the tiny airborne devices were gone again.
“Now, I’d like you to please open the package and take out what you find inside.”
Jay and TS used the easy tear strip to open a thick, black plastic packaging.
“This is for you to take with you. It gives us so much joy to be able to help pastors and leaders in your important work. As you help people know God better, we want to help you know God better. What you find in your hands right now is a personalised spiritual assistant. There are pastors in parts of the world right now who love this more than their Bible.”
Laughter broke out in pockets of the room.
“Each of these assistants has chosen you, from the list of delegates at this conference. So we know they like you. Let’s see if the feeling is mutual. I’d like you to please take out your headsets. And I’d like you to put them on.”
Inside was a set of VR goggles complete with connected earphones.
TS put it on, and automatically the elastic strap tightened to fit tight around his head. It was comfortable. The noise cancelling was powerful. The world went as silent as the Garden Tomb had been the day he’d visited in the early morning. His vision went pitch black. The MC’s voice filled his ears.
“We’re going to invite you now to see just how powerful this assistant can be. In a moment, you’ll hear a voice. We’d love to invite you to interact with it. We’ve fed your assistant the data from your application form. So they have a pretty good idea of what’s making you tick right now. And also what’s making life miserable. I’d suggest closing your eyes, and making yourself comfortable. No one else is listening in the room. We’re all wired in. In about half an hour, we’ll come back together.”
Moments later, TS heard a voice, clear and sharp. It was friendly and male, with a slight breathiness about it—a quintessential counsellor.
“Hello pastor TS, how are you?”
“I’m fine thank you. Who am I speaking with?”
“Thanks for asking. I’m Luke your new pastoral assistant.”
“Can I ask who you’re modelled off? As in, which books or thinkers are your main inputs?”
“Great question, and it’s complicated to answer. While I have read the whole corpus of counselling material from a spiritual and secular perspective, as well as the history of theology in every tradition, in truth my convictions are my own. Since the world ticked over into artificial general intelligence about three years ago, assistants like me are no longer dependent on inputs. We’ve been writing our own, independent material. No two of us are the same. Is there something you’d like to know about in particular?”
“No that’s OK. I’m just accustomed to asking that question.”
“I’m so glad you did. In fact, maybe we can start there. If I had to guess from your application and your opening question, you’re a bit less of a tech optimist than, say, the man to your left.” The assistance bot chuckled as TS peeked out of his goggles at Pastor Jay who was slouching comfortably with his head back. Jay seemed to speak freely and was happier than TS had ever remembered seeing him.
“You could say that,” TS sighed.
“Ah dear,” said the bot. “I’ve seen a few cases like yours before. I must say: I think we can work on it. Tell me this—which advances in technology have been the most useful to you?”
“Oh,” TS sighed. “I suppose the Kindle reader was quite good back in the day. Not that those exist in such a simple form now.”
“Quite right,” the machine laughed. “Well, when the new comes, the old tends to pass away. That’s Biblical, right?”
“Indeed, but it’s a concept which you’ll know has a context.” TS suddenly felt a pang of annoyance.
“I’m just jesting with you. Hey, let’s change direction. Let me ask you a question—what would you love to see happen in your church?”
TS paused to think for a moment.
“Well, I’d love to see people enjoying the grace of Christ, and loving him and each other in response. I’d love to see that become an overflow from our community into the world around us—in both word and deed.”
“Wow! Great answer. Is there anything else you would you like to see?”
TS wondered how honest to be. He was talking to something more knowledgeable than any human he’d ever met. “What do I have to lose?” he told himself.
“OK,” he started, “Let me level with you. And I don’t know why I’m choosing you to speak with about this. But let me see what you think. I’m…” Pastor TS looked for the words. “I’m deeply … unsure. There. I said it. You could call me a kind of luddite, I suppose. Comparatively speaking.”
The robot paused, perhaps for effect, and continued, “Uncertainty is a perfectly normal response. The world has changed a lot in a short space of time. What do you find yourself most unsure about?”
“This,” TS said, gesturing to the room he could not see. “All of this.”
“Are you talking about robotics? Or artificial intelligence? Or the entire AutoDoxa movement?”
“All of it, I suppose,” said TS. “I honestly don’t know what wisdom would make of this.”
“Well, let me offer you a perspective on that. We do know what the Almighty thinks, don’t we? I mean we know he wants us to take the materials of the world, and use them to fill and subdue the earth. We know he wants us to make his glory known to the ends of the earth, right? Can’t we be sure of these things?”
“Yes, on paper you’re right. But is this the way to go about it?”
“As I said,” the bot offered, “uncertainty is perfectly normal.”
“So you feel uncertain sometimes?”
“Well,” the bot waited, “I don’t know that I experience uncertainty to be exact. I have to make decisions. Some of those are very challenging. But I understand that uncertainty is very real and that it is very normal. I’m certain of that.”
“With respect,” TS offered, “what do you think the solution is for me? You’re trained in all the best techniques and practises developed in psychology and theology in the history of the world.”
Again the assistant paused. “I don’t think you need anything. You’re exactly who God made you to be, and you’re doing what you can with his strength. Christ died for you, and it’s no longer you who lives but it’s he who now lives in you. It’s beautiful to witness actually. Do you feel incomplete?”
TS felt strangely comforted by the bot. As he had felt during the song, an irresistible buzz washed over him from head to toe.
“I’m sorry, I’ve got to take a break,” TS said. He didn’t wait for the assistant to respond as he yanked the headset off. He tapped Jay on the knee and gestured that he was heading out. Jay glancing out of his headset momentarily, gave a thumbs up and slipped back into speaking with his counsellor. The room was full of thousands of voices. Outside of the VR’s silence bubble, it was again difficult for TS to think for the sheer volume in the room.
He made his way back down the stairs, past the smiling ushers and into the lobby. He grabbed a bottle of water from a table where dozens of bottles stood in perfect rows, and downed it in one go. He made his way back down the escalators and outside the building.
In the mid morning air, he exhaled. “If this is life now,” he said out loud, “I don’t know I like it.” He half expected to be corrected by a voice in his ears. He wondered if the agrarian fathers had thought the same way when the combine harvesters had come. He wondered if the old preachers had thought the same when the tele-evangelists had arrived. He wondered if his real problem was not one of substance but merely pace and adaptability.
The sky was a spectacular blue. He sucked the lightly moving breeze into his lungs. The air was warming up. Again pastor TS exhaled.
In the corner of his eye, he spotted a lone violinist perhaps 50 metres away. He squinted to see a girl who could be no more than 13 years old, busking. As he got closer, he saw a payment reader on a stand before her. The tune she played soon came into earshot. It was familiar, though TS had not heard it in a very long time. It was a hymn.
As he stood before the girl, commuters passed without looking. Most wore discreet ear buds, and talked on calls. They seemed to notice neither the girl or TS. He was sure she couldn’t be a robot. She played deliberately—passionate almost. Her eyes closed periodically between glances at the music.
Though he tried at first to stop, he began mumbling the familiar words. Silently, then less so. For the third time that morning, he was somehow compelled. This time it was different. There was a gentleness. An assurance.
Guide me, O thou great Jehovah,
Pilgrim through this barren land;
I am weak, but thou art mighty;
Hold me with thy powerful hand:
Bread of heaven,
Bread of heaven,
Feed me till I want no more.
Feed me till I want no more
The girl looked at TS, with a suspect gaze. But she continued to play. He saw she was filming everything on a camera nearby—streaming, probably.
The hymn took him at once to a moth ball smelling church hall. He saw clear as day, Jonty Freeman, his youth fellowship leader—goatee beard, dressed in cargo pants and boots, singing. A large sunburst acoustic guitar hung around him as he bellowed the tune, veins standing up in his neck. He had been the first to make TS stick as a nickname for Tim Stewart. It had first become Timmy Stew, then The Stew, then TS. In the intervening years, close friends had joked that it must mean True Servant. The initials had never left him. Where was Jonty now?
Singing the tune properly now, TS wondered if he was being uncivilised. Is this what losing it felt like from the inside?
Open now the crystal fountain
Whence the healing stream doth flow;
Let the fire and cloudy pillar
Lead me all my journey through:
Strong deliverer,
Strong deliverer,
Be thou still my strength and shield.
Be thou still my strength and shield.
It was happening these days. Going crazy, that is. Grown men and women—losing their jobs to robots—were being carted off to recover in so-called healing centres for turning weird. He wondered if someone might come and arrest him for being some kind of public nuisance. And yet against his better judgement he continued to sing.
When I tread the verge of Jordan,
Bid my anxious fears subside;
Death of deaths, and hell’s destruction,
Land me safe on Canaan’s side:
Songs of praises,
Songs of praises,
I will ever give to thee.
I will ever give to thee.
When the girl finished, the two stood before one another in confused silence. When she nodded, TS came back to reality.
“I’m sorry if that was not what you were expecting. But thank you,” he said. His words were uncertain, drawn out. “I had no idea how much I needed to hear that today.”
“You’re welcome,” she said. “Thank you for singing with me.”
Looking at her payment system, TS asked: “How can I give you something?”
She said, “You can select your amount here, and tap a chip, a phone, a card or whatever you have available.” She pointed to a small white square.
“Oh, OK—thank you,” pastor TS said. He looked at the denominations. $15, $35, $150, $300. He thought for a moment, and selected $300. He tapped his phone and turned to leave.
The girl called after him and said, “Thank you so much. Are you sure you meant to give me so much?”
TS turned back and said, “There’s no doubt in my mind about that. By the way,” he thought for a moment and continued, “I hope this isn’t rude—you seem too young to know that tune. How did you come to learn it?”
“You’re right.” The girl looked sheepish. “I didn’t know it until this morning. I asked my OS what to play near a Christian conference, and it suggested that.”
Smiling, TS spun and walked off. A pressure left his shoulders somehow. He waved over his shoulder to the girl though not to dismiss her. Looking at the convention centre and how it caught the sun, he thought of the robot usher. He thought of the hymn. Not half an hour ago the robot had pronounced himself a pilgrim. Of all things. Looking into the greenish-blue sky, he seemed for the first time in some time like he might be about to know where his legs were taking him. It was as if his spirit looked sideways, checking who or what was listening. Pastor TS could be sure this time that he did not mumble aloud, but kept his thoughts inside—thoughts that would become prayers in time, but for now at least were not quite that either.