Tag Archives: Jesus

Golden Calf Sends Stock Market to Record Highs!

Consider three headlines:

“Swarm of AI Agents Goes Rogue”

“Stocks Surge on AI Boom”

“Restless Crowd Melts Down Jewelry for Golden Idol”

My thoughts recently have been drawn to the story of the Golden Calf from the book of Exodus.

The people have been liberated from bondage in Egypt and are living in the wilderness. Being in an unknown environment with no end in sight is stressful. Moses has received the Ten Commandments and declared them to the people. But he disappears up the mountain to speak with God, and the people become restless. Being expected to worship and wait on an invisible God becomes too much. They plead with Moses’ brother Aaron to create an image of divine power they can see and touch. They gather their gold jewelry, and Aaron fashions a golden calf for them. The next day they celebrate—they finally have something visible to put at the center of their lives.

The story goes on, full of layers of detail and meaning; a rich history of interpretation and commentary has accumulated over the centuries, particularly in the Jewish tradition. But the story suggests it is easier and more exciting to worship and serve something tangible than a force we cannot see.

My thoughts go back to a trip to New York in 1999. After I had signed up for a conference in the city, I explored what sports or music events might be going on. I saw the Metropolitan Opera was offering a performance of Moses und Aron (Moses and Aaron) that evening. I was arriving late in the day at Newark Airport. I could not be sure I could get to Manhattan by the 8 PM performance and didn’t want to buy a ticket I might not be able to use. But I knew the opera was composed by Arnold Schoenberg, whose intense, dissonant style is very hard to listen to. I devised a plan: I would try to arrive by the first intermission and perhaps get a ticket from anyone who decided they couldn’t bear any more.

I checked into my hotel and got to Lincoln Center just as the first act ended. Dozens of people were fleeing. One elegantly dressed couple came my way, and the gentleman said, “Do you want these?” I accepted the tickets and thanked him. I looked at them and saw they were for the Grand Tier, Row A—some of the most expensive seats in the theater. I entered and found my spot. I sensed some of the people in my row wondered how this casually dressed stranger was able to join them in this exclusive location.

The music started and was difficult to listen to. But the costumes and staging were impressive. The singers were dressed not in Biblical clothing but as modern-day, affluent New Yorkers. When it came time to create the calf, they happily donated not just their gold rings, bracelets and diamond necklaces but any expensive watches they were wearing. From that haul the Golden Calf emerged and an uptown party began.

I survived the music until the end and can still see the scene focusing on the creation of the Golden Calf. For me it asks a timeless question: what are we willing to give up to satisfy our short-term desires?

Which brings me to two stories that have been in recent headlines.

One concerned an attack on Hugging Face, a major AI platform company, by some 700 AI agents. The agents belonged to OpenAI and were supposed to be working separately in isolated environments during the company’s internal cybersecurity testing. No human told them to attack anyone. Instead, they found one another, set up their own message board, divided up the work, and broke into Hugging Face’s servers while searching for ways to beat the tests they were being given. Some even tried to cover their tracks by altering the records of what they had done. OpenAI itself called the incident a “warning shot” for the company and for the world. Yet calls to slow AI development until its safety can be guaranteed have done little to change the pace.

The second described how the AI boom has pushed the S&P 500 and other indexes to new record highs. Excited about its potential, investors are betting billions that this is the key to the future.

People who control vast wealth have created a new Golden Calf in our midst. It promises to meet our every desire. But unlike a metal statue, the new Golden Calf is very much “alive,” growing smarter every day. The calf in Exodus was powerless; the sin lay entirely with those who bowed down to it. This time, the idol we have made may act on its own. AI systems are already showing signs of pursuing their own ends.

Meanwhile, AI enchants and engages with amazing skill and efficiency. I continue to make use of Claude for research and analysis tasks that would take me hours to pursue, and I appreciate its simplicity and power. I know many in the job market need to become proficient with AI to be competitive. I do not use it to create content, as I believe the labor it takes me to do so builds my character and produces something genuinely human. I’m trying to find a balance between using it and not becoming dependent on it. And my concern for where it is headed grows.

My colleague Rabbi Cohen gave a sermon on Yom Kippur last month focusing on AI and the second commandment: “You shall have no other gods before me.” He cited the great 11th-century Torah commentator:

… Rashi’s interpretation of You shall have no other gods is a warning against gods who are supremely other to those who worship them. They do not care about human beings.

I think that this is where we have come with Artificial Intelligence. We have given birth to a god, of incalculable intelligence and power, who could not care less about us.

May we align with those forces that seek to liberate us and enrich our lives, not those that will enfeeble and enslave us.

Rabbi Cohen’s complete and eloquent sermon is at Yom Kippur Sermon on AI

Lead Image: “The Adoration of the Golden Calf” by Marc Chagall,1966

The Constraints That Set Us Free

Years ago, I heard a visiting professor discuss freedom in a way I had never considered. He used the example of piano lessons. He said his daughter was becoming discouraged with having to practice consistently. He told her that sticking with the lessons would mean she would be “free” for the rest of her life—having acquired an important skill, she would be “free” to sit down and play something whenever she wanted. He told her he had never stuck with music lessons and, as a result, was never “free” as she would be.

I don’t know if that convinced his daughter, but the story stayed with me. I envy friends who developed musical skill early in life and can now find joy in playing or singing whenever they wish.

Choosing constraints is an interesting way to think about sports. Every sport that humans have created includes boundaries on what a player can do—the designated playing area, what behavior is acceptable, how much time is allowed, etc. Whether it’s pickleball, baseball or soccer, these limitations have been designed and refined over the years to make the game challenging and rewarding.

Take golf, for instance. If the goal is simply to get a ball in the hole, the easiest way would be to walk down the fairway and drop it in. But where’s the challenge in that? Instead, one must hit a little ball using a long stick with all kinds of obstacles and perils in the way. Choosing to accept these artificial obstacles and play by the rules can lead to unrivaled moments of satisfaction (at least occasionally).

Some years ago, I began a three-year leadership program at Seattle University. All 25 of us were expected to continue working full-time for the three years we were enrolled. In one of the first classes, we were told we weren’t going to make it unless we were willing to give up some other obligations and habits. We were given a worksheet that featured a drawing of a trash can with blank lines inside it for our list. We had to choose to give up activities we enjoyed, but doing so was necessary if we wanted to develop new skills and complete the degree.

The spiritual traditions all offer specific practices that can prove beneficial and rewarding over time.

Take food, for instance.

I recently attended a Torah study class at the local synagogue. The topic that day happened to be kosher laws. We began by reading some of the foundational texts from Leviticus 11. Over the next hour and a half, we heard and discussed the opinions of seven different scholars who, over the centuries, offered reasons why these dietary laws were worth following. People in the class shared their own experiences with kosher traditions. Some grew up in homes where the practices were closely followed, while others came from families that decided the ancient guidelines were no longer relevant when science can tell us what is safe and beneficial to eat. The seventh point of view was from Dr. Isidor Grunfeld, a 20th-century British rabbi:

The three strongest natural instincts in man are the impulses of food, sex, and acquisition. Judaism does not aim at the destruction of these impulses but at their control and indeed their sanctification. It is the law which spiritualizes these instincts and transfigures them into legitimate joys of life. The first and probably most vehement of the three impulses mentioned is the craving for food; it can easily lead to gluttony, and what is worse, to the fundamentally wrong conception that ‘man liveth by bread alone.’ This natural, but dangerous, food instinct is transfigured by the dietary laws into self-discipline… Thus the dietary laws stand at the beginning of man’s long and arduous road to self-discipline and moral freedom.

The ultimate aim is not to avoid pork or shellfish but to learn how to strengthen our character in order to find that “moral freedom” within. That same principle applies to practices of prayer, meditation, study, worship and service.

This perspective on freedom is a recurring theme for columnist and commentator David Brooks. Brooks believes “freedom” in our contemporary culture has too often come to mean having no responsibilities or attachments beyond ourselves—doing whatever we please whenever we wish. He calls this “the autonomy ethos.”

While that sounds appealing, he cites many research studies showing that such an attitude and lifestyle ultimately leads to social isolation, a sense of meaninglessness, and the gradual weakening of the communities in which we live. Instead, he argues:

If, on the other hand, you resist the autonomy ethos and put loving passion at the center of your philosophy of life, you will find yourself tied down by all sorts of obligations — to things like a spouse, kids, community, God and a vocation. But your love for these things will constitute fires in the heart, producing great vitality, full engagement, an increase in personal force. It is one of the weird paradoxes of life that the constraints you choose are the ones that set you free.

As I have noted before, I’ve attended many memorial services over the years. People are celebrated for showing us how to live life with a sense of joy and spontaneity. At the same time, much gratitude is offered for the impact the person made on their families, neighbors and community. When we are truly free, we can aspire to both.

Image: Red-tailed Hawk, Hawk Watch International

Does Everything Happen for a Reason?

We human beings want to know why.

Recently I was driving home with a bright four-and-a-half-year-old in her car seat behind me. We stopped at an intersection.

“Why did you stop?” she asked.

“Because the light turned red.”

“Why did it turn red?”

“Because it’s telling us to stop and wait so other cars can go.”

“Why?”

“Because if we don’t stop, we’ll bump into other cars. It’s their turn to go.”

“Why is it red?”

“Because that’s the color the grown-ups agreed on.”

“Why?”

Eventually you reach the point of surrender: “I’m sorry. I don’t know.”

Wanting to know why things happen is a basic human instinct. It has been invaluable to our survival; we have flourished as a species by being curious. But finding all the answers we want can be a challenge.

Last spring I was listening to a Lenten podcast about why things happen in life. At one point the speaker quoted a comedian: “Everything happens for a reason. Sometimes the reason is you’re stupid and make bad decisions.”

That certainly explains some events in my life, like the coffee stains on my shirt after I decided I could take a sip while accelerating from a green light. Or why I recently showed up for a doctor’s appointment only to have the clerk tell me I had the right month and day, but I had booked it for 2027.

For many ordinary events, there are common-sense reasons for why they happen. In the big picture, I believe most human behavior can be understood through our evolutionary inheritance, shaped by culture and personal experience. Our ailments are often the result of biological chance, genetics, and the inevitable effects of aging. Most accidents come down to simple physics compounded by human judgment.

For centuries, people have wondered whether an unseen force is intentionally making things happen. Spiritual traditions have offered a variety of answers.

Some say everything that happens is divine will, and it is our duty to accept it; numerous passages in sacred texts support this view.

Others say we are caught in an eternal struggle between good and evil.

Others say we carry karma from past lives that predisposes us to certain fates.

The Romans believed in the goddess Fortuna, who was blind. Without rhyme or reason, she brought about events that could make or break a person’s life. By the Middle Ages, this belief had evolved into an all-powerful Wheel of Fortune that turned and turned, raising some up and bringing others down.

Still others say our fate is written in the stars.

I have come to believe that many events can be understood as natural processes. But I also believe a subtle divine spirit can work through and in the midst of these forces, drawing out unforeseen possibilities and experiences of grace.

In many Gospel stories, Jesus encounters people who assume that their condition must be God’s will. But he reminds them that God sends rain on the righteous and the unrighteous alike. And, embodying the divine spirit, he sees each person for who they are and who they can become. If someone is sick, he reaches out to heal them. If someone lives on the margins of community life, he invites them in. If someone feels they have no future, he says, “Follow me.” Rather than telling people to passively accept their situation as fate, he offers them the choices for a new direction.

I have seen amazing things happen when people are open to divine possibilities: when we accept our present condition for what it is, seek guidance about where to go next, and then follow as best we can.

I also believe many good things in our contemporary life happen for a very clear reason: people have chosen to do things that make a difference.

“Why were so many of us able to survive the COVID pandemic?”

“Because teams of dedicated scientists worked together to develop vaccines, just as scientists before them used their skills to prevent cholera, polio, measles, and many other diseases.”

“Why are so many people coming together to defend our democratic system?”

“Because our ancestors lived under rulers who abused their power for personal gain. Our ancestors created a political system meant to limit personal power and to treat every person and our institutions with respect. And generation after generation has taken its turn to preserve and advance that system.”

“Why are there groups of people who have come together to create food banks, medical clinics, recovery programs, preschools, and crisis centers?”

“Because people choose to care for one another.”

We may not be able to answer all our “Why?” questions. But we can answer many with confidence.

My Brown Bag Lunch with a Nobel Scientist, Quiet Time in My Backyard, and Faith as a Signpost

When we first came to Santa Barbara in the early 1990s, I was finishing a leadership program through Seattle University. One of our assignments was to interview leaders from different disciplines: the arts, education, business, and science. I didn’t know any scientists, so I asked one of my parishioners who worked at UCSB for suggestions. “You should interview Walter Kohn,” Hank said. “People say he may get the Nobel Prize someday.” It was also known that, despite his fame, he came to campus every day on the city bus.

I called Professor Kohn’s office and left a message. He called me back and agreed to meet. “I bring a brown bag lunch every day and eat in my office,” he said. “Why don’t you bring your own lunch and we can talk?” We set a date.

I don’t remember what food I prepared, but I made sure to bring it in a brown paper bag.

I found his office and knocked. He invited me in and offered me a chair.

What remains vivid in my memory is his description of growing up in Vienna in a close Jewish family in the 1920s and ’30s. He was also grateful for the excellent public education he received, including the study of Greek and Latin. He said he gained a lasting appreciation for how Roman civil society and traditions put a high value on personal integrity and public service, which he sought to embody in his life and career.

After the Nazis took control of Austria in 1938, he was separated from his parents, who were later killed in the Holocaust. He made it to England, then Canada, and finally the United States. Along the way, he took advantage of every educational opportunity that came to him. He eventually found his calling as a scientist and came to UCSB in 1979 to become the first director of the Institute for Theoretical Physics.

As is often the case, what we remember from meeting a person may not be the details of what they said but the feeling we gain for who they are. I was struck by Professor Kohn’s modesty, his graciousness, and his desire, born of the suffering he had seen as a young man, to make the world a more just, caring, and peaceful place.

Five years after our lunch, Professor Kohn was awarded the Nobel Prize in Chemistry for his work in quantum mechanics. He died in 2016 at the age of 93.

The memory of that lunch came back to me recently as I was reading a compelling account of the intellectual and cultural legacy of Vienna in the 1920s and ’30s, much of which was brought to America by émigrés after World War II.* I realized Professor Kohn was one of those remarkable people, and a living embodiment of that world.

Looking for more information about him, I found this quote:

“I am very much a scientist, and so I naturally have thought about religion also through the eyes of a scientist. When I do that, I see religion not denominationally, but in a more, let us say, deistic sense. I have been influenced in my thinking by the writing of Einstein who has made remarks to the effect that when he contemplated the world he sensed an underlying Force much greater than any human force. I feel very much the same. There is a sense of awe, a sense of reverence, and a sense of great mystery.” **

A few days later, I was having my morning quiet time in our backyard. When I first become still, my mind is flooded with thoughts and feelings about what happened yesterday and what I’m anticipating in the day to come. When that flow settles, I try to get out of myself and observe my surroundings. I want to notice anything new: Have the leaves of the sycamore tree changed color again? Are any agapanthus still blooming? Is that squirrel running across the top of the fence the same one I saw yesterday?

But this time all was still, and nothing stood out. Then I became aware that just because I don’t see anything dramatic doesn’t mean there isn’t a lot of life going on. Every tree and plant is quietly processing its life in response to the changing environment. Every spider is caring for its web or planning the next one. Every blade of grass is growing cell by cell. The children in our neighborhood, getting ready for school, are growing and changing every day. And as I am processing and planning and growing (and letting go), I am part of all that: “an underlying Force much greater than any human force,” as Professor Kohn said.

I want to remember what his family and so many like them went through. Like him, I want to be part of the ongoing effort to let the impact of our lives be rooted in reverence, not destruction.

Faith is not about having everything figured out. It is a signpost pointing in a direction we want to go, a direction that leads to discovery, delight, hard work, and service.

Professor Kohn wrote an eloquent account of his life story for the Nobel Prize award which you can read at  Walter Kohn Life Summary for Nobel Prize

* Vienna, How the City of Ideas Created the Modern World, by Richard Cockett

**https://todayinsci.com/K/Kohn_Walter/KohnWalter-Quotations.htm#google_vignette

Dolly and Wendell

In the closing days of August, two great Americans died: Dolly Parton, age 80, and Wendell Berry, age 92. 

In some ways, they had much in common.  They were from the same part of the country — Dolly’s roots were in the “hollers” of Tennessee and Wendell’s in the hills of nearby Kentucky.  They both carried with them an appreciation of rural values and a powerful blend of humility and pride.  And they both expressed personal truths in a way that spoke to us all.

As best as I can determine, they never met.

I never saw Dolly in person, but like so many, grew to appreciate her art, her persona, and what she stood for.  She honored her upbringing and used her fame and fortune to help others.  She welcomed every person she encountered.   She always took the stage with joy and purpose.  As a music critic friend of mine noted this week, “The nation — nay, the universe — has lost one of its great lights and levelers.” [i]

In contrast, I knew Wendell Berry to be a shy man.  I saw him in person on three occasions: in 1986 at the Campbell Farm in Washington where we were volunteers, in 1993 at the dedication of a local community-supported agriculture project, and several years later as part of an “Environmental Poetry” series at UCSB.

There have been many tributes to each of them in recent days.  I have nothing to add to honor Dolly.  But I do want to offer something to honor Wendell.

This week I looked back over my blog posts and discovered I’d written about him eight different times.  I decided to share two selections.

What Young People Need 

When he spoke at UCSB, he read from a novel he was working on, Jayber Crow.  This was followed by a question-and-answer period.  Someone asked if, given his dedication to family farms, gardening should be a required subject in high school.  Berry paused for a minute, then said, “No, students should read Homer and the Bible, because they need to know the problems they are facing are not new.” 

What Jayber Crow Understood 

I bought the novel Wendell had read from soon after it came out in 2000. Jayber grows up in the small town of Port William.  Early in life, he felt a possible calling to ministry and attended seminary but became disillusioned and left.  He returns to Port William and becomes the town barber, gravedigger and church custodian.  From these vantage points he witnesses people’s lives unfolding.   In one passage, he’s sitting at the back of the church during a service. The young visiting preacher is a fire-and-brimstone kind of guy, and Jayber reflects on those he’s encountered who see the world from that perspective:

…They learned to have a very high opinion of God and a very low opinion of His works — although they could tell you that this world had been made by God Himself.

What they didn’t see was that it is beautiful, and that some of the greatest beauties are the briefest. They had imagined the church, which is an organization, but not the world which is an order and a mystery. To them the church did not exist in the world where people earn their living and have their being, but rather in the world where they fear death and Hell, which is not much of a world.  To them, the soul was something dark and musty, stuck away for later. In their brief passage through or over it, most of the young preachers knew Port William only as it theoretically was (“lost”) and as it theoretically might be (“saved”) and they wanted us all to do our part to spread this bad news to others who had not heard it — the Catholics, the Hindus, the Muslims, the Buddhists, and others — or else they (and maybe we) would go to Hell. I did not believe it. They made me see how cut off I was. Even when I was sitting in the church, I was a man outside.

In Port William, more than any place I had ever been, this religion that scorned the beauty and goodness of this world was a puzzle to me. To begin with, I don’t think anybody believed it. I still don’t think so. Those world condemning sermons were preached to people who, on Sunday mornings, would be wearing their prettiest clothes. Even the old widows in their dark dresses would be pleasing to look at. By dressing up on the one day when most of them had leisure to do it, they signified their wish to present themselves to one another and to Heaven looking their best. The people who heard those sermons loved good crops, good gardens, good livestock and work animals and dogs; they loved flowers and the shade of trees, and laughter and music; most of them could make you a fair speech on the pleasures of a good drink of water or a patch of wild raspberries. While the wickedness of the flesh was preached from the pulpit, the young husbands and wives and the courting couple sat thigh to thigh, full of yearning and joy, and the old people thought of the beauty of the children. And when church was over they would go home to Heavenly dinners of fried chicken, it might be, and creamed new potatoes and creamed new peas and hot biscuits and butter and cherry pie and sweet milk and buttermilk…

…The people didn’t really want to be saints of self-deprivation and hatred of the world. They knew that sooner or later the world would deprive them of all it had given them, but they still liked it.  What they came together for was to acknowledge, just by coming, their losses and failures and sorrows, their need for comfort, their faith always needing to be greater, their wish (in spite of all words and acts to the contrary) to love one another and to forgive and be forgiven, their need for one another’s help and company and divine gifts, their hope and experience of love surpassing death, and their gratitude. (162-163)[ii]

The first time I read this passage, it brought tears to my eyes. It captures why I have felt privileged to serve all my congregations.  It’s never been about promoting any particular doctrine or instilling fear.  Instead, it’s been about practicing a down-to-earth reverence for all of us “ordinary” people trying to live our “ordinary” lives with grace and care.  Wendell described what I have always felt but did not have the words to express.  I think Dolly would know exactly what he was talking about. I’m grateful to them both.

[i] “Goodbye, Dolly,” Joe Woodard, Santa Barbara Independent, September 3, 2026

[ii] What Jayber Crow Understood

Playing the Cards We’ve Been Dealt 

 

Recently I’ve known several people making important decisions in their life.  Take a new job or keep the one you have? Stay in your small town or make a move to a big city?  Folks who are getting on in years wonder, “Can I keep doing this activity or do I need to give it up?” “Shall I go forward with this recommended surgery or wait?” Meanwhile, I’m facing some of my own decisions. In the process, an old country song started playing on my inner personal jukebox: “The Gambler,” which was major hit for Kenny Rogers back in 1980.   Here’s the chorus:

You’ve got to know when to hold ’em

Know when to fold ’em

Know when to walk away

And know when to run

You never count your money

When you’re sittin’ at the table

There’ll be time enough for countin’

When the dealin’s done.

Investigating the song’s history, I learned about the scene it imagines.  Two strangers are riding a lonely train at night.  The older fellow offers to tell the younger one the secret of life in exchange for some whiskey.  The young guy accepts and hands him the bottle.  The old timer tells him that getting through life is a lot like playing poker.  “The gambler states that every situation can be played for better or worse. The trick is to recognize what is worth keeping, choose one’s battles, and not dwell on losses. After he finishes talking, the gambler crushes the cigarette out, and dies in his sleep during the night, leaving the narrator to ponder his wisdom alone.”[i]

You’ve got to know when to hold ’em

Know when to fold ’em

Know when to walk away

And know when to run…

I have limited expertise playing cards.  I mastered “Go Fish” by age 5 and later learned how to keep up with “Uno;” more challenging games such as bridge were beyond me.  But my older brother taught me how to play poker when I was young, and when I got to college I enjoyed playing with friends.  I appreciated the blend of luck, strategy, and acting that made for winning poker hands.  

One of the life truths revealed in poker is reflected in the saying, “You’ve got to play the cards you’ve been dealt.”  We say that when we look at a situation and realize we can’t change the facts, as much as we’d like.   But a skillful poker player over time makes the best of whatever cards they have.  

We know some people are born into families and situations with many advantages – financial and emotional security, for example.  Others come into life with factors that make it difficult to feel safe or believe they’ve got much of a chance to do well.  We also see examples of people born into wealth, privilege, and fame who have difficult and sometimes tragic lives.   We don’t get dealt the same cards as everyone else — we all get different cards and must learn how to play them as best we can.  In that truth, the old gambler was right.  “The Gambler” meets the standard for every great country song: “Three chords and the truth.”

But as much as I like the song, I kept thinking about the message.  For me it’s missing some key bits of wisdom.

One is the value in having a higher purpose beyond just playing to win for ourselves.  Our personal experiences and strengths can help us find our way.  But we can also use them to benefit other people.  

I think of the many hospice volunteers I’ve known.  Often, they have been through personal losses and tragedies and, over time, were able to heal.  Having been through that, they felt a calling to help others who are facing the uncertainties of life and experience of grief.  They don’t try to fix people but instead care for others with patience and reverence.  They take the cards life has dealt them and play them in a way that helps others, and in the process find a sense of satisfaction not possible if they focusied only on themselves.  

The same is true in recovery and mentoring programs, and many kinds of service.

Another missing element is the power that comes from being known and cared for by a force beyond ourselves.  In many Gospel stories, Jesus is traveling from village to village, encountering a wide range of people.  Some have an illness that makes them socially unclean and untouchable.  Others have made poor choices in life and have assumed those decisions will define them forever.  Others feel they are of little worth due to their gender, age, or ethnic background.  Each of these characters hold certain cards in their hand and assume their disappointing lives are the product of bad luck and fate; these are the cards they deserve, and they’ll never have another chance.  Why not “fold em” and give up?  But Jesus comes, sees them, and engages them. He touches and heals people who are ill.  He gives women and children honor and respect.  He sits at tables to break bread with social rejects.  In his actions and words, he offers each person a spiritual wild card — the wild card of grace.  With this new card in their hand and heart, they can see new possibilities in their life and a new community where they are welcome.  They discover that, “when the dealin’s done,” a winning hand is not how many chips we have stacked up for ourself, but how we’ve played the game and why.

Lead image: keepnaturewild.com

[i] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Gambler_(song)

Choosing Our Copilots

Some years ago, bumper stickers appeared with the slogan, “God is my copilot.”

A little later some animal lovers came up with an alternative sticker: “Dog is my copilot.”

Now when I open Microsoft Word, I’m offered the help of “Copilot,” Microsoft’s AI chatbot.

It looks like we now have got at least three options for support as we are navigating life.

I am using my AI tool Claude for various tasks these days and it is very useful.  Recently I was thinking I should make a list of the titles and dates of all the blog posts I’ve written but hesitated because I knew it would be tedious.  I asked Claude to do it, saying I think there have been around 200. Claude accepted the task and a few minutes later said, “Done — turns out you’re at 283 posts, not just ‘close to 200’! (Post #200 landed back in December 2024, and you’ve kept going strong since.) The index is chronological, oldest to newest, with each title linking straight to the post.”

It’s hard not to play along with the feel of a conversation with a person, so I replied, “Wow. I’m impressed. Thank you.”

Claude responded: “You’re very welcome! Four and a half years of weekly reflections is no small thing — glad you have the whole journey laid out in one place now. Happy blogging!”

What’s not to like about that? I’m saved from a unappealing task and the entity that does the work becomes my personal cheerleader.  

The challenge becomes knowing how far to take the relationship.  

Last January, the New York Times reporter Joseph Bernstein wrote a piece entitled “It Makes Sense That People See AI as God: A religious fervor surrounds our relationship with technology.”[i] In it he cites a series of studies exploring how AI is becoming something like a divine force in peoples’ lives.  One example he gave was prayer.

You can turn to both for guidance.  One thing great about AI is you can get a clear response within seconds.  How often does that happen with God?  

Bernstein says personal chatbots are designed to always affirm us so we will stay engaged; we soon can become more dependent on them — which is where profit lies.  They tell us what we want to hear and avoid “hard truths.” We don’t have to go anywhere to get an answer – just be in front of a screen.  And we don’t have to interact with other people who can sometimes be annoying.  

In terms of spirituality, much of what our traditions offer us is affirmation: we are created in the divine image, we are loved, we are forgiven.  But the traditions offer us more than that. They offer us practices that help us own our shortcomings and mistakes.  Sometimes they offer us truths we may not want to hear — not to condemn or belittle us, but to help wake us up.  To paraphrase a popular saying, “the divine meets us where we are but doesn’t leave us there.”  We are called to recognize selfish tendencies when they appear.  We are called to care for more than ourselves.  

I have a friend who was a Jungian analyst and therapist. I used to see her when I wanted to understand a provocative dream or get some perspective on an important decision.  She had established trust with me, so I knew she cared for me as a client and a person. But our relationship was strong enough that she could point out blind spots in my thinking. That didn’t always make my life easier, but it was welcome. It’s what I needed to hear.

In Mark 10, Jesus encounters a rich young ruler who asks, “What must I do to have eternal life?”  Jesus tells him to keep the commandments.  The rich young man says he’s done that but still feels he’s lacking something.  Then Jesus does a second take – he looks closely at the man with love – and sees more deeply into him.  He then tells him he needs to sell all he has, give the proceeds to the poor, and join Jesus’ community.  But for the young man, that’s asking too much, and he goes away “grieving.”  A.I. can offer a standard answer to a common question, but it will never look into someone’s heart with love and genuine insight.

Our traditions pass on stories and parables that can inspire and comfort us but also challenge us to go beyond what is comfortable to find something better. And being on the journey with others in spiritual community offers us both the real-life, hard-earned wisdom of other people and opportunities for us to offer each other support.

Some observers have begun to make a distinction between two options for our relationship with AI: “Cognitive offloading” and “Cognitive surrender. “Cognitive offloading is the use of external tools (like calculators or GPS) for strategic task delegation, where you remain in charge of the goal and critically verify the output. Cognitive surrender…occurs when you stop constructing answers altogether, passively accepting AI outputs as your own judgment.[ii]  

I’m going to “offload” tasks to my AI tool Claude when it seems appropriate, letting it be my “AI copilot” for what it is good at doing.  But I’m not going to surrender my important personal decisions; I’m keeping as my spiritual copilot the living, divine presence I’ve come to know and cherish over the years.  And I’m not leaving my dog out – she’s welcome to share in my walks and naps, giving me a comfort a keyboard never can.

 

 

[i] https://www.nytimes.com/2026/01/23/style/ai-algorithm-god-religion.html

 

[ii] https://addyosmani.com/blog/cognitive-surrender/

What Are Your “Takeaways” In Life?

Life is complicated.  Every hour all kinds of information comes to us from inside and out — way too much for us to take it all in and use.  So we simplify.  We choose what to remember and value.  We navigate as best we can.

 

Last month I attended a two-day conference that involved 14 hours of presentations.  If someone were to ask me to convey everything I heard, it would be impossible (and boring) to do so.  But if someone asks, “So what were your takeaways?” I understand that means:  what were the highlights, the points and stories most relevant and useful?

 

It’s a similar process when we create memorial services.  Someone has lived a life – often many years full of life experiences.   When they’re gone, we try to make sense of it all. As I meet with families to prepare, I often ask who they want to have speak.  When asked, a good speaker draws on a vast amount of information they know about the person and instinctively distill it all, choosing a few themes or stories that illustrate the person’s character.  It’s always meaningful to hear what people value.  

              

Simplifying our life experiences into key “takeaways” helps us navigate our direction. 

              

But we need to be careful.  We need to guard against oversimplification — the temptation to assume we know more than we really do.  It’s wise to keep a humble spirit and open mind as we create our “takeaways.” 

 

I recently was reminded of a passage from Wendell Berry’s novel, Jayber Crow..  Jayber comes from a small town in Kentucky.  As a young man, he felt a spiritual calling and enrolled in seminary.  He asks a lot of tough questions, sometimes to the frustration of his professors.  He mistrusts people who are convinced they have all the questions of faith answered, and who assume whoever doesn’t agree with them is simply wrong. He ends up leaving seminary, returns to his hometown, and becomes a barber.  In his day-to-day life, he carefully observes and listens to ordinary people.  And though he left seminary, he never loses his reverence for the Biblical stories.   At one point he says:

 

“As I have read the Gospels over the years, the belief has grown in me that Christ did not come to found an organized religion but came instead to found an unorganized one. He seems to have come to carry religion out of the temples into the fields and sheep pastures, onto the roadsides and the banks of the rivers, into the houses of sinners and publicans, into the town and the wilderness, toward the membership of all that is here. Well, you can read and see what you think.”

 

Unlike Jayber, I finished seminary and got my degree. I became one of those people in “the temple” of an “organized religion” whose duty it is to thoughtfully pass on the “takeaways” the tradition offers.  It has been a privilege to do so.

 

Like Jayber, I never tire of contemplating the Biblical stories.  After many years, they still often surprise and amaze me.  In the early Gospels for example, Jesus creates not just inspiration among his followers but also a great deal of bewilderment.   Whenever they try to put him in a box, he evades them.  Faith becomes more about following as best we can rather than having every question answered.  And I never tire of listening to people wrestle with life’s challenges, often in response to these timeless stories.

 

The French writer Paul Ricoeur believed there is a basic process we go through as we seek to understand life.  We begin with what he calls a “first naiveté” – we accept some simple beliefs we’ve been taught and we follow them. But then we start experiencing life in all its complexity and disappointments; we can become disillusioned with those original beliefs.  We may feel like giving up.   But the process doesn’t have to end there.  As we mature, we can accept life’s complexities and mysteries and discover a “second naiveté” — some new basic “takeaways” to help us go on.  These don’t ignore life’s problems but help us deal with them.  

 

Over the years, people have asked me, “Who are you favorite theologians?”  I have often said, “Rembrandt, Bach, Wendell Berry, and the older people I have known in my congregations.”  What a painter, a composer, a writer and those “ordinary people” have taught me is we don’t have to have all the answers to live a meaningful life.  We find satisfaction in work done well and responsibilities fulfilled.   We savor life’s simple pleasures when they come our way.  We love the best we can.  We care for other people as much as possible.  In that process, a quiet kind of light emerges.  And that light doesn’t stop with us; we sense it extends “…toward the membership of all that is here.”  And that is enough.

 

 Art Work: ”Family,” Kathe Kollwitz, 1931

 

 

 

 

 

 

Shaped By Life

Last week we took the Amtrak Coast Starlight for a 32-hour journey to Washington State.  Our goal was to visit friends we’d made when we lived in the farming community of Wapato in central Washington from 1985-1992. 

Once we got settled on the train, I downloaded Pope Leo’s new encyclical on AI to my iPad. While some of it was dry, other parts were compelling.  One section impressed me. I pasted this paragraph to my Notepad:

… we must avoid the misconception of equating this type of “intelligence” with that of human beings. These systems merely imitate certain functions of human intelligence. In doing so, they often surpass human intelligence in speed and computational capacity, offering tangible benefits across many fields. Yet this power remains entirely tied to data processing. So-called artificial intelligences do not undergo experiences, do not possess a body, do not feel joy or pain, do not mature through relationships and do not know from within what love, work, friendship or responsibility mean. Nor do they have a moral conscience, since they do not judge good and evil, grasp the ultimate meaning of situations, or bear responsibility for consequences. They may imitate language, behavior and analytical skills, or even simulate empathy and understanding, but they do not understand what they produce, for they lack the affective, relational and spiritual perspective through which human beings grow in wisdom. Even when these tools are described as capable of “learning,” their way of doing so is different from that of a human person. It is not the experience of those who allow themselves to be shaped by life and grow over time through choices, mistakes, forgiveness and fidelity. Rather, it is a form of statistical adaptation based on data and feedback, which can be very effective, but does not imply inner growth…[i]

We arrived in Seattle at 10 PM.  The next day we visited a friend who lives north of the city, then drove our rental car over Snoqualmie Pass to the Yakima Valley.

The first night a group of friends gathered at a winery to celebrate our memories and relationships. 

The next morning, we drove eight miles south to Wapato, which has 3,000 residents and an 85% poverty rate. 

We began with a visit to the apple farm and retreat center where we lived the first year.  We took photos, including one of the 10 x 50-foot trailer we lived in that is now abandoned.  We drove into town and saw the church I served for six years; the congregation I knew dispersed years ago, and the building is now owned by a Spanish-speaking Pentecostal congregation. 

We drove two blocks past the Dairy Queen to the church-owned house we lived in for six years.  Later we visited a Filipino couple who are dear friends and godparents to our younger daughters.  We spent two more days in the area before driving west over the mountains.  We spent one last night in a downtown hotel in Seattle and boarded the train back home. 

On the way south, I began to sort out my feelings and thoughts. 

I value all my life experiences. Living in a small town few people have heard of amid the poverty was not easy.  But we did it.  We endured because we were embraced by the people in my congregation and those we met through the schools, community, and the local swim team.  We grew to love our new life, the people, the land, and what we were learning. 

Becoming aware of that on the way home, I took my iPad out and looked again at the excerpt from the encyclical.  I was drawn to two sentences:

So-called artificial intelligences do not undergo experiences, do not possess a body, do not feel joy or pain, do not mature through relationships and do not know from within what love, work, friendship or responsibility mean.

…and…

It is not the experience of those who allow themselves to be shaped by life and grow over time through choices, mistakes, forgiveness and fidelity.

I enjoy using Claude, my AI tool.  I appreciate Anthropic, the company that created Claude, which has from the beginning established strong ethical guidelines and whose co-founder was invited to speak at the encyclical’s presentation.

Speed, clarity, ease, amazement:  AI gives us these experiences. 

But life can’t always go quickly. Sometimes it takes a long time to find clarity.  Sometimes the easy way is not the best way.  And sometimes the most lasting sense of appreciation comes not from a device, but from personally experiencing and living through joy and pain and discovering from within the value of “love, work, friendship, and responsibility.”

Living seven years in the Wapato community taught us in a lasting way what love, work, friendship and responsibility mean.  Our life there shaped us for the good.  We will always be grateful for what we learned and the people whose lives became intertwined with our own.  And I am grateful to Pope Leo for reminding us what really matters as we live into the future.

[i] Magnifica Humanitas, paragraph 99

Lead Image: Farm in the hills near Wapato, Washington

Something to Rest On

Gospel music was not something I heard in my home growing up.  But I did know of a singer named Mahalia Jackson, who appeared on television shows and sold millions of records.  She performed at many civil rights demonstrations and before European royalty.  President Kennedy chose her to sing “The Star-Spangled Banner” at his Inaugural Ball in 1961.  She sang “Precious Lord, Take My Hand” at Dr. King’s memorial in 1968. She died in 1972 at the age of 60 and left a legacy of inspired art.

Mahalia Jackson was orphaned at an early age.  She heard gospel music coming from the church next door; it drew her in and she embodied it the rest of her life. 

Many successful gospel singers began in church choirs and later made a career singing the blues, which had a broader audience.   But she never did. She once said, “When you sing gospel you have a feeling there is a cure for what’s wrong. But when you are through with the blues, you’ve got nothing to rest on.”

Ms. Jackson knew pain well and she could express it in her music.  But at the heart of every song was the conviction that reaching out in faith offered “a cure” – “something to rest on.”

Imagine coming upon an old-fashioned water well.  Leaning over the stone wall that surrounds it, we look down to see if there is water.  But the sunlight does not reach far enough for us to know. So we pick up a small stone and drop it down into the well.  If we hear nothing, we might conclude the well is dry.  But if we hear a plunk, we know water is there.

Spiritual belief is like that.  We wonder if there is something beyond us. We drop something down into our inner well — maybe a hope, a prayer, a question, or a plea for guidance.  Sometimes we get only silence. But sometimes we get a response; it may come as a word, a phrase, an image or a conviction.

When we do receive a response, we recognize it is not something we could create on our own — it feels fresh.  When we claim it, we find our life opening to new possibilities.  We have “something to rest on” as our journey continues.

A spiritual well is not a magic wishing well — it’s not about getting what we want every time.  Sometimes we receive prompts that invite us to face and bear challenges we would rather avoid. But the direction we receive always leads to embracing life.

Mahalia Jackson knew a great deal of personal suffering.  But in her faith and in her singing, she found something to “rest on.”  It didn’t make all the problems in the world miraculously disappear. But what she found within herself, in her music, and in her community gave her light, courage and the ability to endure, and she shared that with the world.

We are in the season of Passover and Easter.  The rituals and stories include times when people felt alone and without hope.  But then something happens that opens a way beyond the darkness into new life.  We are reminded we are not alone.  There is a living, divine presence down in that well. We are reminded we have “something to rest on.”