Time magazine’s person of the year in 2025 was artificial intelligence. Or at least, the architects of AI. My husband’s Illinois hometown has two data centers planned for construction this year. A friend of mine joked the other day about how he so frequently uses AI in his work that he’s sure he’s used so much water he’s dried up the equivalent of a small river in Georgia. 

My employer has encouraged me and my editing team to use tools like ChatGPT for various tasks in the past two years that I’ve been employed, but this fall they upped the ante. We were now using a new tool, Claude, and would be creating articles completely from scratch with the goal of totally eliminating the need for our freelance writers. 

I’m thankful everyone on my team also feels some trepidation when it comes to this new workflow. One of my coworkers always starts any criticism by stating something like “moral indignations aside,” before leading into an accurate critique of how the tools are failing at their purpose: hallucinations, assumptions, compelling but not accurate information, good at sounding good, lack of heart. Our team lead said recently, “The content lacks humanity because it isn’t written by a person who is excited to write it. The machine can imitate an excited person, but it can’t write like one.” 

These limitations (or “perils” as coworker #1 described them) affect our work, but are largely ignored by the higher ups who are focused on increasing efficiency and revenue—that’s their job, I can’t blame them for it. But now my work is opening my laptop, plugging a few data points into a pre-written prompt in Claude, and hitting “enter” and waiting for the AI to spit out 1000 words about whatever subject it thinks is the most optimized for search engines. 

As a writer by trade and by calling, it has been difficult to adapt to this new process. As a Christian, it is difficult to justify using a tool that requires an insane amount of water just to process my requests, resulting in harm to the climate and creation. It feels wrong to type into the chat box, “please add more hopeful language into this article.” 

I ask myself the questions: Does this glorify God? The original Creator? Is this a good stewardship of my skills, my short time on this earth? Is using AI even though it damages creation justifiable? 

During the season of Lent last year my church small group was encouraged to write liturgies for our work. One of our group lucked out and Every Moment Holy had already written one for them: A Liturgy for the Washing of Windows. At the time I didn’t feel the need to create a liturgy for my work—instead I wanted a liturgy for wedding planning, as that was the work that was actually causing me stress and anxiety, the thing that I wanted to feel God’s peace and intention around. 

Now, nearly a year later, I’d like to try my hand at writing a liturgy for the most stressful part of my work: creating an article with AI. I’ve recently learned that a hallmark of an AI-written article is an abundance of em-dashes. This is terrible news for me, a lover of the em-dash as a tool to transition mid thought or to save myself when I get written into a corner—and yet I won’t be cowed into changing my writing style to avoid AI allegation. I’ll admit, I’m tempted to use Claude or ChatGPT to help, but I’d rather write my own and be happy with its messy, human, em-dash filled truth. 

A Liturgy for the AI-Assisted Writer

To be prayed at the beginning of work, or when wrestling with the strange gift of these new tools.

O God of all wisdom,
You who spoke creation into being,
And formed humanity in Your image—attentive, creative, and responsible—I come now to this task you’ve set before me.

Meet me here, Lord, in the strangeness of this hour.
That I should sit before a machine and ask it to form words, that I should collaborate with algorithms in the ancient work of meaning-making.

As I shape prompts and refine responses,
guard my heart from carelessness,
and my mind from pride or haste.

Let me remember
that tools do not replace calling,
And efficiency does not equal excellence.

I confess that I am tempted to forget that every true word is a kind of prayer.
Forgive me, Father, when I treat this tool as master rather than servant.
Make me a faithful steward of what I create. 

Where this technology amplifies my voice,
let it amplify what is good.
Where it simplifies my labor,
let it deepen my integrity.
Keep me mindful of those who will read these words—that they are neighbors, not data points.

Let me never forget,
The machine has no wisdom—I must bring the wisdom.
The machine has no love—I must write with love.

Lord, let these articles—born of this strange collaboration—
Be honest and not deceptive,
Be helpful and not merely clever,
Be true and not merely plausible,
Be human and not hollow.

Teach me to write with clarity, humility, and love,
To write with wisdom and wonder,
Knowing every tool is a gift,
And every word—however it comes—
Is an opportunity to serve the truth. 

May the work of my hands,
Even when assisted by circuits and code,
Be acceptable in your eyes, O Lord, my Rock and my Redeemer. 

Amen. 

Carlisle Patete

Carlisle Patete (‘22) came to Calvin University from the mountains of North Carolina and graduated with a double major in film & media and creative writing. After brief stints in Los Angeles and Chicago, she now resides in Chattanooga, Tennessee, where she enjoys sweet tea on her front porch and identifying every tree and bird she runs into on any hiking trail.