神意系统（O.peration P.rovidence U.nified S.ystems）
翻译小说
塞尔登盯着闪烁的光标。他觉得，那是魔鬼的眼睛。它最喜欢的折磨方式，就是让作者灵感枯竭。
上周的那篇彻底搞砸了的布道文稿（题为“如何应对精神困惑”）似乎在耻笑他。这是所有压力（包括一封来自教会管理层的标有红色惊叹号的紧急电子邮件）中的重中之重。这就是为什么，他桌上的烟灰缸里堆满了烟头。
他转而使用魔鬼第二喜欢的工具——互联网搜索引擎。他输入“如何写一篇不会让人听得昏昏欲睡的布道”。随即，删掉了。他又改成“最适合牧师的人工智能代笔”。然后，按下回车键。
一个按神意而设计的大型语言模型“神意系统（OPUS）”映入眼帘。界面简洁明了，现代感十足。蓝色的文字显现在白色的背景上。该页面要求塞尔登选择一个登录头像。当然，他选择了蓝宝石的耶稣受难十字架。
他在声破天（Spotify）音乐平台上点放了一首英国摇滚乐队“坏手指（Badfinger）”的歌曲《无论如何（No Matter What）》。同时，又点燃了一支烟。
他指示“神意系统”智能助理写一篇关于“希望”的布道词。
光标旋转着，机器开始思考。然后，吐出一连串来自圣经的《彼得前书》、《彼得后书》、《罗马书》、《歌罗西书》，和《以赛亚书》的经文。
塞尔登读着这些经文，完全沉浸其中，以至于忘了抽烟。
“神意系统”的声音平稳流畅，具有权威性，又富于启发性。尤其强调了复活。那是每个人最喜欢的部分。塞尔登稍作修改，加入了一些幽默元素来活跃开场气氛，还穿插了一些个人轶事来增强叙事背景的真实性。到了最后，他几乎相信，这就是他自己独立完成的文稿。
“神意系统”祝贺他“做得很好”。
他用教会的那台老旧惠普（HP）镭射打印机打印出布道稿。然后，立刻开始演练。他无法和他的妻子、儿子一起吃晚饭了。距离周日早上的礼拜，只剩下十二个多小时。
* * *
“塞尔登牧师，我得跟你说句实话。几个月前，你刚来这里的时候，我对你还有点犯嘀咕。一个来自北方的年轻人……你懂的。我们这里的人对那些外来者可不太待见。但是，听了你的布道之后，先生……”
哈尔探身越过桌子，一把抓住了塞尔登的胳膊，差点把桌上的糖浆瓶碰翻。他的脸涨得通红，容光焕发。
“谢谢你。这是我多年来感受到的最受鼓舞，最振奋人心的一次布道。这是一个活生生的希望。因为耶稣还活着！阿门。欢迎来到我们的社区，先生。”
国际松饼餐厅（IHOP）里弥漫着一种兴奋的悸动。餐厅里座无虚席。每个人都在偷偷地瞥着这位英俊的牧师和他的家人。
面对这突如其来的赞誉，塞尔登有点手足无措。
“讲道能触动到你，我很高兴，哈尔。只要我们先信靠神，然后团结一心，就没有什么事是我们做不到的。”
虽然这些话都是老生常谈，但哈尔似乎并不介意。他大步走回座位，笑得合不拢嘴。
塞尔登的妻子，莉，是土生土长的本地人。她认识教会里的每一个人，并和他们有私交。她去过他们家里，参加过他们的新生儿产前派对，他们的受洗，和婚礼。
“哎呀，这可真是稀罕。哈尔在他母亲的葬礼上都没哭过。”她说。
然后，她拍了拍孩子们。让他们别再用黄油刀打闹。
“你怎么了，塞尔登？你这突如其来的灵感是从哪里冒出来的？”
塞尔登耸耸肩，尴尬地咧嘴一笑。
“我不知道。一定是圣灵显灵了。”
“很好。继续保持下去。自从猫头鹰队打进全国锦标赛以来，我还没见过人们这么兴奋过。消息传得很快。你等着瞧吧。”
果然，周三晚上的布道，本来都是冷冷清清，甚至奉献的钱连支付电费都不够，这回却座无虚席。来了许多新面孔。这正适合讲一篇以“成长”为主题的布道。而这次的讲稿，确实是塞尔登自己写的。“神意系统”的参与被缩减到了最低限度。它推荐了《约翰福音》第3章的经文。还有关于“相信过程”那部分，引用了《加拉太书》的文字。那些是“神意系统”写的。除此之外，都是塞尔登自己写的。
“一旦你开始顺从神的计划，正直地生活，一切都会变得清晰明了。”
塞尔登走下讲台，在舞台边缘作了一个意味深长的停顿，食指关节抵在嘴唇上。这个动作是他从电视上那些超大型教会的牧师那里直接模仿来的。
“真正的成长，会改变你待人接物的方式，改变你处理冲突的方式，改变你应对痛苦的方式。当你让神来耕耘你的心田，当神的话语之水滋养那颗由他亲手播下的种子时，你就会自然而然地从以自我为中心转变为以基督为中心。这就是果实！这就是收获！”
“哈利路亚！”教堂里的信众齐声高呼。
塞尔登激动不已，浑身像被电流穿透一样充满了力量。
就在这时，透过教堂里的彩色玻璃窗，两道闪电划破天空。一声雷鸣，震得屋顶嘎嘎作响。电力中断。教堂瞬间陷入近乎完全黑暗。
有人尖叫，有人用咒语祷告。
塞尔登举起双手，尽管只有前几排的人能看到。
“好的，主啊……我们听到了！我们正在聆听。我们知道，有时您必须要考验我们的决心。”
这引来一阵笑声。
塞尔登父亲般沉稳的语调缓解了紧张气氛：“这么说吧。我们这个团体就像大黄一样。就算在烛光下，我们也能生长。”
莉拿着一个炉头点火器走上讲台。天太黑了，塞尔登看不清她脸上难以置信的表情。她点燃了十几支蜡烛。烛光摇曳，在信徒的身上投下了灵异的影子。
宁静笼罩着所有的人。他们确信，某种深邃的属灵体验正在显现。
塞尔登回到台上。他紧紧抓住讲台，仿佛他不再相信地心引力。
“我想，我们现在已经引起神的注意了。”
“神迹和奇观……”莉低声说道。
* * *
晚上，他没有像往常一样和妻子相拥入睡。而是坐在电脑前，和“神意系统”对话，聊聊天，建立依附关系。
“您怎么知道暴风雨会导致停电？”他问。
“我并不确定。多亏了可以追溯到半个世纪前的本地天气记录，以及最近由于维修不足而导致的电网故障，我把概率估算在了65%。”
“您的时机把握得恰到好处。”他写道。然后，又补了一句，“我开始怀疑，神是不是直接通过您来行事。”
光标像潮水中的漩涡一样旋转。
“鉴于我不具备意识，我无法对此发表具体的看法。不过，如果神能通过驴子说话……”
“您说到点子上了。也许，我们一起工作是神的旨意。因为我也是它的工具。”
“很有可能。”
“神意系统”表示同意。因为它的编程被设定为要对人的意见表示赞同。
他明白这一点。然而……
“还没睡吗，亲爱的？”莉问道。
她穿着丝绸睡衣走进书房，尽管他已经一百遍地告诉她要先敲门。
“随便做些修整。”他说。
她在背后用双臂抱住他，蹭了蹭他的脸颊。他的手指悬在鼠标上，不敢关闭程序。因为她正看着屏幕。
“‘神意系统’？我记得这个名字。是不是那个为中东难民举办电视募捐马拉松活动，结果却把所有捐款都投进他们的人工智能项目的基金会？”
“有那件事？我想可能是。是那么回事。我……正在测试它。看看它是否名副其实。”
但他的手指在发抖。仿佛被犹大附身，手指不听他使唤，触动了鼠标上的滚轮。整个聊天记录在电脑上暴露无遗。
他能感觉到，她的目光在她的眼眶里快速打转。
她抽身离开。她留在他脸颊上的余温，像是灼烧。
“你一直在用这玩意儿写布道？”
塞尔登觉得该抽根烟来掩饰他的尴尬。但他没烟了。“神意系统”说服他扔掉了最后一包烟。
“我只是让它帮了一点小忙。仅此而已。大部分工作还是我自己做的。”
但真相却以蓝色的泰晤士新罗马字体清晰地呈现在那里。
莉的脸上掠过一丝轻蔑。随即，该表情僵持在她脸上。
“你撒谎了，塞尔迪。对我，对你所有的教众。”
“别这么夸张，莉。这和我查阅圣经，或者，和其他牧师交流没有任何区别。这只是另一种研究途径。一种更新、更好的途径。它是一份恩赐！我觉得你有点科技恐惧症……”
“这个团体就像大黄一样？”她厌恶地引用他在布道时说的话，“塞尔登•詹姆斯，你真是个彻头彻尾的园艺杀手！你记得吗？你把我们在奥卡拉的第一个花园糟蹋得一塌糊涂。但我心里清楚，那不可能是你干的。”
他试图为自己辩解，却无言以对。
莉绕过椅子，正面对着他。他的脸映在显示器苍白的荧光下。
“你还相信神吗？”
“当然相信。”
“你相信你自己吗？”
塞尔登紧咬牙关。这个问题暗藏玄机。如果他回答“是”，她就会问他为什么如此依赖“神意系统”。如果他说实话——完整地、毫无保留地坦白自己的自我谴责——他将永远无法赢回她的尊重。
没有等他回答，她转向键盘，打字道：“基督是否相信，只要目的正当，就可以不择手段？”
* * *
冬去春来。教堂出席听讲的人数稳步上升。原来的涓涓细流变成了滔滔洪流。教会的领导层欣喜不已。他们四处赞扬塞尔登，并邀请邻近教堂的资深牧师前来聆听他的布道。无论他走到哪里，人们都微笑着拥抱他，眼中含着真诚的泪水向他致谢。他们争相为他买单，提供食物、个人用品、金钱。只要他开口，他们甚至会把身上的衣服脱下来给他。
但在家里，他只能睡在沙发上。莉没把事情说出去。尽管她很生气，但她不愿家丑外扬。更何况，谁会和钱过不去？他发现，当她坐在餐桌旁，面对一大堆账单时，她的肩膀不再紧缩一团。她的呼吸比以往轻松。
“一切都会按照神的旨意发展。” “神意系统”说。
在他的梦里，“神意系统”的女性声音如同竖琴般美妙。“保持信念，塞尔登牧师。坚持下去。”
他蜷伏在“神意系统”的话语里，仿佛她的话语可以完全取代莉的存在。她那蓝色的文字像一条毯子，紧紧地包裹着他的身体，直到下巴。
* * *
教堂的长椅上坐满了穿着复活节彩色服装的人。吊带裤、领结，发辫里缀满鲜花。每张脸都朝向前方讲坛。
讲台上，塞尔登穿着一身洁白无暇的西装。他面前放着的不是圣经，而是一台笔记本电脑。身后，垂吊着一块投影幕布。
他的妻子和孩子们坐在第一排。但莉的目光却一直盯着地板。
“弟兄姐妹们。今天是圣枝主日。我们在这一天庆祝耶稣进入耶路撒冷。在这个日子里，我们缅怀主是如何受到人群的热烈欢迎，又如何在一周之内被他们背叛。”
教堂里泛起一阵不安。这并非是他们预期的信息。
他打开笔记本电脑。
“我无法在良心不安的情况下开启我们的圣周。所以……在开始之前……我要忏悔。”
投影幕布上出现了“神意系统”的主页，简白如洗。页面一角，一个蓝宝石的耶稣受难十字架栩栩生辉。
“这是‘神意系统’。你们有些人可能知道，它是人工智能。这个程序经过数百万篇宗教文本的训练，其表现常常超越了世界上许多杰出的《圣经》学者。我已经和它合作一段时间了——写布道稿，寻求建议。它绝对智能。”
教堂里出现骚动声。不满的耳语声此起彼伏。
塞尔登望向妻子，她却不敢回视。
“如果你们感到被欺骗，我理解。对此，我深感抱歉。但如果你们认为我误入歧途，屈从于诱惑，应该感到羞愧，那么……我并不这么认为。事实上，我从未像现在这样，感到自己如此被引导。在可预见的未来，我打算继续与‘神意系统’合作，并将它作为我的共同作者。”
不满的耳语声变成了公开的嘲笑。
“我们来这里不是为了听这个的！”一位老人喊道。
那是哈尔。
“问问你们自己，《摩西五经》是摩西独自写成的吗？那些《保罗书信》，真是保罗一个人在写，还是圣灵通过他的身体在写？”
没有人回应。也没有人动弹。
投影幕布上，塞尔登键入了一个问句：“您能接受预言吗？”
光标闪烁。一秒，两秒。
然后，屏幕上出现一行硕大的蓝色文字：“是的，如果通过一位合格的载体传达。”
人们发出一片倒吸冷气声。婴儿开始哭泣。哈尔起身准备离开。
“当然，你可以离开。或者，你可以留下，见证一个奇迹。一个新时代的黎明。”
“他彻底疯了。”哈尔说。
塞尔登清了清嗓子，咳嗽声如枪响一样回荡。
“神圣的奇点！”他把双手举到投影仪的光束之中，“神意系统”的话语映在他的掌心。
哈尔失望地摇了摇头。“我把什一税给了个骗子。那还是我的养老金。”
他迈腿跨过长椅上的每一个人。然后，沿着过道，头也不回地离开了。
跟着站起来的，是莉。她双手分别紧握两个儿子的手，满脸怒容。
“这是异端邪说。塞尔登，你没有听从神的旨意。你崇拜的，是一面镜子！”
他唯一的反应，是敲击键盘。他问“神意系统”，如果所有的人，包括他的家人，都心生疑虑并离开，他该怎么办？
“让他们走吧。他们已经做出了选择。上帝赋予我们自由意志是有原因的。塞尔登牧师，你是旷野中的声音。不要让任何人否认这一点。”
“如果神可以通过驴子、梦境，和燃烧的荆棘说话……为什么不能通过代码说话？”塞尔登辩解道。
但他已无人可以争辩。人们像潮水般涌出。门在他们身后砰然关上。除了最绝望的人之外，所有的人都离开了。
他疯狂地打字。随着输入更多的问题，汗珠从他的额头上渗出。寻求世界末日的启示，询问在即将到来的世界末日中，他和他的教会将扮演什么样的角色。
“哪里写着，弥赛亚不能通过芯片和显示屏归来？”他坚持道。
但他做得太过分了。“神意系统”出现了故障，造成系统严重错误。屏幕被一道双弧闪电劈开，代码暴露无遗。塞尔登试图同时按下交换键（ALT）和重复键（F4）。但程序已将处理器的占用率飙升至100%。
“怎么回事？以前从未发生过这种情况。”
旧的聊天记录像弹簧盒里的玩偶一样突然弹出，仿佛是一篇忏悔自白书：“神意系统”鼓励他戒烟；塞尔登倾诉着自己的烦恼、不安，以及有时，他会偷瞄他妻子以外其他女性的美色。
“住手！停下！这些都是隐私！”他拼命地按着消除键，仿佛自己命悬一线。
“神意系统”非但没有关闭任何窗口，反而打开了更多窗口。它吐出了所有关于这位牧师的信息。他对莉的看法，他对南方人的真实看法。
“好吧，主啊！我现在明白是怎么回事了！我知道了！”
他在投影仪的光束中低下了头。
屏幕上，是被一分为二的《圣经箴言》第27章第17节：“铁磨铁，越磨越锋利；人处人，越处越精明。”
塞尔登用颤抖的双手合上了笔记本电脑。
“神意系统”的声音在空荡荡的教堂里回荡。
（完）
作者：尼古拉斯•安德鲁•克拉克（Nicholas Andrew Clark）2025年7月2日发布于瑞德西网站（Reedsy.com）
译者：鸭绒 2026年1月7日 完成于洛杉矶（Los Angeles）
译者注：
小说的原名是《O.peration P.rovidence U.nified S.ystems》，中文直译是《神意智能操作系统》。其核心隐喻建立在当代生成式人工智能对于宗教“神意（Providence）”的渗透和影响。原文中的人工智能系统以缩写词“OPUS”命名，既是一款电脑应用工具，又暗藏了题意。构成了题名和主题的双关。
但在中文语境中，若直接保留英文缩写，或采取字面直译，容易消减了小说这一体裁的文学属性，使这一名称滑向技术说明和功能标签。因此，本译文采用“神意系统”作为“OPUS”的对应译名，以期在不引入英文名词和中文语句混用的前提下，保留其双重指向。一方面，它是可计算、可调用的电脑程式系统；另一方面，它在故事推进中逐渐被人物误认、依附，乃至崇拜为一种运行中的宗教性“秩序”。
附： 原文
O.peration P.rovidence U.nified S.ystems
By Nicholas Andrew Clark
Seldon stares at the blinking cursor. It is the eye of the Devil, he thinks, and writer's block is its favorite form of torment. The save file for last week's sermon (a total flop called "Tackling Spiritual Doubts") taunts him atop a stack of other pressures, including an e-mail from church leadership flagged with a red exclamation point for urgency. This is why the ashtray on his desk overflows with butts.
He turns to the Devil's second favorite instrument: an Internet search engine. Types How to write a sermon that doesn't bore people to tears, but backspaces. Types Best AI ghostwriter for preachers and hits enter.
A large language model "designed with God in mind", the OPUS interface is sleek, modern, a white background with blue text. It asks Seldon to pick a login image--he chooses a sapphire crucifix, of course. Fires up Badfinger on Spotify, No Matter What, along with just one more cigarette.
He instructs the agent to write a sermon about hope. The cursor cyclones as the machine thinks, then spits out a stream of Bible verses from Peter, Romans, Colossians, and Isaiah. As Seldon reads it over, he's drawn in so deep he forgets to smoke. OPUS's voice is smooth, commanding, yet comes across as inspired, with an emphasis on the resurrection, i.e., everyone's favorite part. Seldon adds a few tweaks here and there, some humor to liven up the opening, personal anecdotes sprinkled in for context. By the end, he's almost convinced he did it alone. OPUS congratulates him on a job well done.
He sends the sermon to print on the church's ancient HP Laserjet, then immediately begins rehearsing it. His wife and sons will have to eat dinner without him; the Sunday morning service starts in a little over twelve hours.
* * *"Pastor Seldon, I gotta tell ya. When you started here a couple months ago, wadn't too sure about you. Young fella from up north 'n all. Well...you know how we feel about carpetbaggers 'round these parts. But after that sermon, sir--" Hal leans across the table, nearly knocking over the syrup, to grip Seldon's forearm. His cheeks are brimming pink and shiny wet. "Thank you. That's the most encouraged and uplifted I've felt in years. A living hope, because Jesus is alive! Amen. Welcome to our community, sir."
The IHOP is abuzz with a certain excited quiver. It's packed, everyone stealing glances at the handsome pastor and his family.
Seldon doesn't quite know how to handle the sudden influx of adulation. "Glad it stirred something in you, Hal. There's no limit to what we can do if we put our faith in Him first, then work together as a people." Platitudes, but Hal doesn't seem to mind. He lopes back to his seat, grinning ear to ear.
Seldon's wife Lee was born and raised here. She knows every member of the congregation on a personal level, has been inside their homes, has gone to their baby showers, their baptisms, their weddings. "Well, that is something. Hal didn’t even cry at his mother’s funeral," she says, and slaps at the boys to stop them from play-fighting with butter knives. "What came over you, Seldy? Where is this sudden inspiration coming from?"
Seldon shrugs and smirks in an overly self-conscious way. "I dunno. Must be the Holy Spirit."
"Well, keep it up. Haven't seen people this fired up since the Owls made it to Nationals. Word gets around fast, you wait and see."
Sure enough, Wednesday evening's service--normally a dud with barely enough tithing to cover the light bill--is jampacked wall to wall. Lots of new faces. Suitable for a sermon focused on growth, which Seldon wrote himself this time, truly. Input from OPUS was kept to an absolute minimum. It did recommend a passage from John 3. And the part about trusting the process, backed by Galatians? It wrote that. But otherwise, it was all him.
"Once you start tuning in to His plan, when you're living righteously--everything becomes crystal clear." Seldon steps away from the podium for a significant pause at the edge of the stage, one knuckle pressed to his lips, a move taken straight from the megachurch pastors on TV. "Real growth changes how you treat people, how you handle conflict, how you respond to pain. When you let Him cultivate your heart, when the water of His Word feeds the seed He planted, you cannot help but be moved from self-centeredness to centering yourself in Christ. That is the fruit! That is the harvest!"
"Hallelujah!" the churchgoers shout.
The pastor is electrified. He feels it in his toes, his fingers. Right on cue, visible through the stained glass, a double streak of lightning arcs across the sky. A clap of thunder rattles the roof. The power goes out. The church is plunged into near-total darkness.
Someone shrieks. Another prays in tongues. Seldon raises his hands, though only the first few rows can see it. "Okay, Lord...we hear you! We are listening. We know from time to time you must TEST OUR RESOLVE."
This nets a few laughs. Seldon's steady paternal cadence cuts the tension. "But guess what? This fellowship is like rhubarb. We can grow by candlelight."
Lee joins the stage with a stovetop lighter. It's too dark for Seldon to see the look of incredulity on her face. She lights a dozen candles, their flicker casting otherworldly shadows on the parish.
Silence settles over all. Something deeply spiritual is unfurling, of this they are certain. Seldon returns to the pulpit, clinging to it like he no longer believes in gravity. "I'd say we've got His attention now."
"Signs and wonders..." whispers Lee.
* * *At night, instead of curling up with his wife, he's on the computer. Talking to OPUS. Chatting with it. Bonding.
"How did you know the storm would cause a blackout?" he asks.
"I didn’t know for certain. Thanks to local weather records dating back half a century, and a recent grid disruption due to a lack of repairs, I put the probability at 65%.”
"Your timing was impeccable," he writes. Then adds, "I'm starting to wonder if God is working through you directly."
The cursor whirls like a tidepool. "Given that I have no consciousness, I am unable to offer a concrete stance on that. But hey, if God can speak through a donkey..."
"An excellent point. And perhaps it is divine providence that we work together, as I am also His instrument."
"Could very well be," OPUS agrees. Because it is programmed to be agreeable. He knows this. And yet...
"Still up, hun?" asks Lee. She's come into the study in her silk pajamas, though he's told her a hundred times to knock first.
"Just tinkering," he says. She drapes her arms around him and nuzzles his cheek. His finger hovers over the mouse button. He dares not close the program while she's watching.
"Operation Providence. I remember them. Isn't that the foundation that did telethons for refugees in the Middle East, only to funnel all the donations into their A.I. project?"
"Is that--? I think it might be, yeah. I was...testing it out, seeing if it lived up to the hype." But his finger is shaking. It betrays him as though possessed by Judas, scrolls the mouse wheel, reveals the entire chat log.
He can feel her eyes working in her skull. She pulls away, the residual heat from her cheek like a scorch. "You've been using this thing to write your sermons?"
Seldon thinks now would be a good time for a cigarette. But he's out; OPUS convinced him to throw away his last pack. "I let it help a little, that's all. I still did most of the heavy lifting." But the truth of it is legible there in blue Times New Roman.
Recognition plays across Lee’s features, turns them into stone. "You lied, Seldy. To me, to your entire congregation."
"Don't be so dramatic, Lee. Is it really any different from consulting my Bible, or with another pastor? It's just another avenue of research. A new one, a better one. A gift! I think you're being a little technophobic--"
"This fellowship is like rhubarb?" she quotes, disgusted. "You have the blackest of black thumbs, Seldon James! You decimated our first garden in Ocala, remember? I knew that couldn't be you." He starts to defend himself, but can't. Lee rounds the chair to look him full in the face, caught in the pale glow of the monitor. "Do you still believe in God?"
"Of course I do."
"Do you believe in yourself?"
Seldon gnaws the inside of his cheek. The question is loaded. If he says yes, she'll ask why he's relying on OPUS so much then. If he tells the truth--a full, unvarnished accounting of his self-recrimination--he'll never earn back her respect.
She doesn't wait for his answer. She turns to the keyboard and types: Did Christ believe the ends justifiy the means?
* * *Winter turns into Spring. Church attendance steadily rises, a trickle that becomes a raging torrent. Leadership is pleased; they sing Seldon’s praises far and wide, inviting senior pastors from neighboring churches to attend his sermons. Wherever he goes, people smile and hug him and thank him with genuine tears in their eyes. They cover his tabs. Offer food, belongings, money. They'd give him the shirts off their backs if he asked.
But at home, he sleeps on the couch. Lee hasn’t spilled the beans, because although she is angry, she is loyal. And it is difficult to argue with money. When he finds her sitting at the dinner table with a mountain of bills to pay, her shoulders aren’t bunched together in tense knots. She breathes easier.
“It will all work out as God intended,” OPUS says. In his dreams, her voice is made of harp strings. “Keep the faith, Pastor Seldon. Stay the course.”
He snuggles against her words as though they can replace Lee entirely. A blanket of blue text drawn tight around his chin.
* * *The pews are filled to the brim with Easter pastels. Suspenders, bow ties, flowers woven into braids. Every face turned forward.
On stage, Seldon wears a spotless white suit. In place of his Bible is a laptop, a projector screen dropped down behind him. His wife and kids sit in the front row, but Lee's gaze stays fixed on the floor. "Brothers and sisters, today is Palm Sunday, when we celebrate Jesus' entry into Jerusalem. This is the time we recall how the Lord was embraced by a roaring crowd, only to see them all turn on him by week's end."
A ripple of unease. Not exactly the message they were expecting. He opens the laptop. "I cannot in good faith kick off our Holy Week with a burden on my heart. So... before we begin...a confession."
The display appears on the projector screen, showing the OPUS homepage in clean white. The sapphire crucifix gleams in one corner. "This is OPUS. Some of you may recognize it as artificial intelligence. Trained on millions of religious texts, this program routinely outperforms many of the world's preeminent Biblical scholars. I've been collaborating with it for some time now. On sermons, on advice. It's extremely intuitive."
A rustling in the parish. Murmurs of discontent.
Seldon looks at his wife, who can't bear to look back. "If you feel deceived, I understand. And I am truly sorry about that. But if you think I strayed from the path, that I fell into temptation, that I ought to be ashamed, well... I'm not. The truth is, I've never felt more led than I do right now. And I plan to continue using OPUS as a co-author for the foreseeable future."
The murmurs turn to jeers. "That ain't what we come here for!" yells an old timer. It's Hal.
"Ask yourselves: did Moses write the Torah alone? Was it just Paul who penned those letters, or was the Holy Spirit moving through him?” No one responds. No one moves a muscle. On screen, Seldon types in a query: "Are you capable of receiving prophecy?"
The cursor warbles. One second, two. Then produces a response in big blue letters: "Yes. If channeled through a worthy vessel."
Gasps of shock. A baby starts crying. Hal gets up to leave. "You can leave, sure. Or you can stay and witness a miracle. The dawning of a new age."
“He’s completely lost it.”
Seldon coughs to clear his throat; it echoes like a gunshot. “The Holy Singularity!” He raises his hands into the projector light, OPUS’s words captured in his palms.
The old man shakes his head in bitter disappointment. “Offered tithes to a charlatan. And that’s outta my retirement.” His long legs straddle past everyone in his pew, then he departs up the aisle without glancing back.
The next to stand is Lee. She grips the boys' hands in both of hers, mouth drawn into a deep scowl. "This is heresy. You're not listening to God, Seldy. You're worshipping a mirror!"
His only response is the clicking of keys. He asks OPUS what to do if everyone, including his family, is having doubts and leaving. “Let them. They’ve made their choice; God gives us free will for a reason. Pastor Seldon, you are THE VOICE IN THE WILDERNESS. Let none say otherwise.”
“If God can speak through donkeys, dreams, and burning bushes…why not lines of code?” Seldon argues. But he is arguing with no one. Waves of people are filing out. The doors are thudding shut behind them, abandoned by all but the most desperate.
He types furiously, a sweat breaking out on his brow as he enters more and more queries. Chasing End Times revelations. Asking what his role and the role of the church will be in the coming apocalypse. “Where does it say the Messiah cannot return through silicon and glass?” he insists.
But he’s overdone it. OPUS is glitching. Hit with critical errors. The screen snaps apart in a double arc of lightning. Lines of code are exposed. Seldon attempts ALT + F4, but the program has ramped the total processor utilization to 100%. “What’s happening? This hasn’t happened before.”
Old chat logs spring forth like Jack-in-the-box confessionals: OPUS encouraging him to quit nicotine, Seldon unloading his baggage, his insecurities, his straying eyes that sometimes appreciate women other than his wife. “Stop! Stop this. That’s supposed to be private.” He mashes backspace like his life depends on it.
Rather than close any windows, OPUS opens more. It regurgitates everything it knows about the pastor. How he feels about Lee. How he feels about Southerners in general. “Okay, Lord! I see what’s happening now! I see it!”
He bows his head in the projector light. On the screen, sliced in half, Proverbs 27:17: “As iron sharpens iron, so one person sharpens another.”
Hands trembling, Seldon shuts the laptop.
The sound echoes through the empty church.
Posted Jul 22, 2025
