“In Job 12, when he says, “But turn to the animals, and let them teach you,” he’s reminding us that wisdom isn’t just in human reasoning, but in the simple, natural world around us. The creatures don’t question God—they live in harmony with His design. Job’s words humble us, showing that we’re not in control, that life isn’t about our understanding, but about trusting the divine order. “In God’s hand is the breath of all humankind.” Our lives, our breath, are gifts from Him. It’s a reminder that no matter how much we try to make sense of suffering or life, we’re ultimately dependent on something greater than ourselves. It’s a call to humility, trust, and gratitude for the life we’ve been given.”

That was all written by ChatGPT, a piece of artificial intelligence software designed – among other things – to mimic human reasoning and emotion in its writing. After being prompted, it took five seconds to give me that statement. As ChatGPT improves in its skill at removing the necessity for thought, consideration, and care from writing, it’s important to remember what it cannot do nor know. It cannot see the reflection of the light off of the water during the sunset at Lake Shavehead. It cannot understand the feeling that stirs deep inside as the last notes of a hymn sung quietly together fade. We are faced every day with the question of how and to what extent to incorporate technology into our work and worship. How much is really lost by allowing AI to write an email for us? Should a church maintain a website? A Facebook page? Instagram? I don’t know where we should draw the line, and I don’t think anybody else does either. But I am choosing to focus on gratitude. The fact I can get a believable approximation of any piece of writing within a few minutes makes sitting down to write that much more valuable and that much more rewarding. I am glad to exercise the mind that God has given me, to be able to look at the beautiful nature here at camp and reflect upon it in my own words. 

Thank you, Lord of the diplomats and the butterflies,

Lord of the social workers and the foxes,

Lord of wood-paneled desks and old-growth oaks,

Lord of all lit by the sun and covered by concrete.

Thank you for the eyes to see Your world,

The ears to hear its wonders,

And the people to share it with.

I wonder sometimes:

What have I done to deserve access to such beauty?

Why me, why us?

But just as none of us can alone count the grains of sand on the waterfront beach, or the insects dwelling within the Victory Tree,

We can never comprehend the expanse of Your love.

But when we work together, as with the sand, as with the insects,

We can begin to appreciate it.

Thank you, Lord.

Amen.

– Noah Boyer-Edwards