2024 in a Tech-Shaped Culture: 5 New Year's Resolution for The Church

Happy New Year!

As we turn the page to another year, here are five resolutions that I hope the church can keep in the months ahead. Each of these resolutions addresses or aligns with the values that shape our tech-shaped culture (values that I wrote about in "Grace and Gigabytes").

Resolution 1: Preach More Lived Stories and Fewer Theological Abstractions

Secularization has accelerated. Church attendance has plummetted. Belief in the trasncendent, let alone the dogma of organized religion, is constantly contested. In this default context of fragmentation and disbelief, the church cannot afford to preach the language of abstraction.

What is abstraction?

Abstraction is a claim about God that is made without a supporting story, example, or illustration.

In the year ahead, let's resolve to tilt the balance in our preaching towards to the lived stories of God's work in our contexts. Let's resolve to proclaim so many lived stories in our context that we discern a common "watch word," or statement of how God shows up in the particulars of our time and place.

Resolution 2: Enrich In-Person Conversations through Digital Content

As we continue to move beyond the pandemic, live streaming has become less appealing as a regular worship habit. According to Gallup, only 5% of Americans are attending services remotely.

Still, digital ministry will continue to serve as the front door to visitors and guests, necessitating that we continue to offer online worship.

What will happen to digital ministry? We might shift to a content-supported model of digital ministry, in which we create and distribute digital content in service to furthering the dialogues started through our liturgies. We might move from events (streaming worship, for example) to posts and stories that enrich our understanding of a topic and expand our theological imagination. This is the model we've tested at Good Shepherd with "Conversation Sundays" - discussions that start in worship and are furthered through digital content in the week ahead.

Resolution 3: Make Space for AI Experimentation

AI is a once-in-a-generation technological leap. AI will shape our culture, and how our culture makes meaning, in ways that we can only begin to imagine. This new technology will inevitably change not just how we execute tasks but how we process information - how we come to learn something, how we come to believe in something.

It's no exaggeration. AI will change what it means to have faith.

The church cannot sit by idly and observe the AI disruption. We must be active experimenters. From creating digital content based on sermon manuscripts to writing newsletters with chatbots, from using ChatGPT to help us articulate personal faith stories to using text to image generators for our newsletter and website, we must resolve to voraciously experiment with these new tools.

Resolution 4: Teach Tech Sabbath as a Spiritual Practice

Just as AI has the potential to be used for purposeful ministry, it can also create a vicious cycle that further retrenches us in digital isolation. As AI creates better content it will command more of our focus. As it consumes more of our attention, we become more enmeshed in the content of our screens.

Tech Sabbath, whether practiced regularly for an hour or for an entire day of the week, is the defiant claim that these vicious cycles do not have ultimate power over my being. To practice a Tech Sabbath is to remember that we are created for much more than digital consumption.

Resolution 5: Model Gratitude as a Leadership Practice

I recently heard Professor Tom Thibodeau define servant leadership in three parts. Prof. Thibodeau suggested that the first job of a leader is to define reality. The second job of a leader is to say thank you. Everything in between is service.

We live in a world where gratitude is missing - or where it is so shallow and superficial that it loses all meaning. When our technology accelerates our communication, we tend to jettison that which is most essential: expressions of thanks, and articulations of our stories. Each is fundamental to the formation of trust. Yet both become increasingly absent the faster we move.

In the year ahead, let's resolve to model how to set aside the drive towards productivity to give meaningful thanks for the service we receive, and to give thanks for those who serve at our side.

In all contexts, in any forums, we are called to partake in the spiritual practice of gratitude in ways that are deep, meaningful, and enriching.

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@ryanpanzer would like to wish everyone a Blessed 2024!

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The Kingdom of God is Like the New Beatles Song

Nearly 50 years ago, John Lennon recorded Now and Then in his New York City apartment. Using nothing more than a boombox and his own piano, Lennon wrote what would become the Beatles' final song some five decades later. Lennon recorded the track through a single mono microphone, resulting in low quality audio that the band declined to release as part of their 1995 Anthology project.

Recent advances in AI made it possible to revisit Lennon's recording, isolating all aspects of the recording as separate tracks. This allowed the surviving two Beatles to add new vocals and guitar atop suddenly crystal clear audio, as if John were in the stuido with them today.

As I have listened and re-listened to Now and Then, I’ve read into the backstory of the song: Lennon’s composition, perhaps written as a statement of love and loss directed at Paul. The band’s decision not to release the track as part of the 1990s Anthology project. And finally, the arrival of new AI technology that allowed McCartney and Starr to finish and release the chart-topping track. 

And as I listen and read about the Beatles’ closing song, I can’t help but think that this track resembles, in no small way, what a life of faith looks like: our small efforts contributing to invisible transformation, one we glimpse in part yet do not experience in full. 

American theologian Reinhold Neibuhr said: 

“Nothing that is worth doing can be achieved in our lifetime; therefore we must be saved by hope… Nothing we do, however virtuous, can be accomplished alone; therefore we must be saved by love. No virtuous act is quite as virtuous from the standpoint of our friend or foe as it is from our standpoint. Therefore we must be saved by the final form of love which is forgiveness.”

Neibuhr’s quote had echoes of Martin Luther, who wrote in the Small Catechism that “The kingdom of God certainly comes by itself without our prayer, but we pray in this petition that it may come to us also.” 

God’s Kingdom breaks in slowly and silently. Our efforts, love, and service feel fragmentary and incomplete. Yet like John Lennon’s recording, they provide the raw material that will one day produce something wonderful, moving, even transformative. They become catalysts to future reversals and redemption that we may not be around to witness.

The Kingdom of God is like a Beatles song, released 50 years later in a way Lennon never would have expected. To paraphrase Walt Whitman, this powerful play goes on, and we may contribute a verse. Whether or not we see that verse added to song, whether or not we hear that song inspire and delight, the song comes nonetheless. 

The Kingdom of God is like a Beatles song. We create our verses. We may not ever press play on their recording. But they join the inevitable song of a band of witnesses, proclaiming grace, goodness, redemption - messages the world needs, both now and then. 

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@ryanpanzer writes about technology, religion, and servant leadership. He is an avid Beatles fan.

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Finding Sacred Spaces in an AI-Shaped Culture

The sociologist Emile Durkheim argues that religion is defined by the concept of sacred spaces. A sacred space is one that is inherently distinct from the ordinary aspects of life. This differentiation clarifies why churches have sanctuaries, why worship involves liturgy, and why traditions are centered around canons of holy texts.

While I'm hardly an expert on Durkheim's work, it appears that this demarcation primarily pertains to rituals. However, in my personal experience, it seems that questions and conversations can also hold significant power in designating a space as sacred, even without the presence of rite or ritual. Three sacred spaces have shaped my faith, my theology, and my outlook on life.

One is the sanctuary at my home congregation, a community that gathers each week to ask what it means to Welcome, Forgive, and Serve. Another is the campfire ring at Rock Island State Park, where I gather with good friends each summer to ask the big questions of life over beer, steak, and s'mores. The other is the pastor's office at Lutheran Campus Ministry, where I had so many meaningful conversations about the Lutheran tradition and vocation with my late mentor.

In my experience, these spaces were sacred not just because of rituals --- but because of the depth of conversations that occurred there. Each space facilitated the asking of the biggest questions of this life - in a way that wouldn't have been possible amidst the frenetic pace of our culture.

The digital age has already erased two of the boundaries that religious communities once held between the sacred and the profane.

Online worship has erased the boundaries used to mark worship spaces by making worship available in our living rooms. And apps that support spiritual practices like prayer and meditation have made these traditional aspects of religion more widely available. But by integrating these practices into daily life, these technologies have also erased the distinctions that once made these traditions sacred.

Now, AI systems like Chat GPT provide us with the means to ask the questions that were once the domain of sacred spaces. ChatGPT can help you make sense of the death of a loved one. It can advise on you on how your vocation is meaningful. It can give you language to explain the mysteries of faith to a small child.

AI generates answers to these great questions in mere seconds. And while it doesn't cite sources, I found ChatGPT's suggestions on vocational meaning to be compelling. I found its commentary on death to be thought provoking, if not hopeful. I found its guidance for teaching faith to small children to be clear, useful, and within the bounds of my own faith tradition.

What happens to faith when a chat bot so easily answers the big questions we once asked in sacred spaces? What happens to the spaces we thought of as sacred when AI becomes a spiritual director? Can we still find sacred spaces in a post-ChatGPT culture? To answer these questions, the church might look at two commitments for ministry in a digital age:

The church must facilitate the practice of asking questions in community. ChatGPT can provide a quick answer to a big, spiritual question. The church cannot rival the speed with which AI answers these questions. Nor, in many cases, can the church come up with answers that sound as confident. Still, the way that AI responds these questions is somewhat isolating. To answer a big question with out the involvement of a trusted interlocutor is to present a viewpoint that is incomplete and fragmentary. Conversations on being are richer as dialogues, not monologues. So while big questions may begin as monologues in a world of AI, our sacred spaces must convert them into shared conversation. If we develop the trust and the psychological safety to convene these conversations, then the sacred spaces of the church will be all the more important in a digital age.

Then, faith leaders must teach their communities to critically reflect and scrutinize texts. AI-generated content seems authoritative. It is well organized and easy to read, even to the point where it could be considered "doctrinal." Yet the web is full of examples where AI fabricated answers or presented outright falsehoods. Inaccuracies are rampant. Its answers seem confident but they are hardly authoritative. This invites a return to the practice of textual scrutiny - or to use the technical term, hermeneutics.

We ought to equip our communities with the ability to wrestle with texts - not just the scriptures, but the confident-sounding outputs of computer technologies. More than all others, this might be the lifeskill that the church is best positioned to teach in a digital age. Regrettably, American Christianity seems less willing today to train its communities on hermeneutical scrutiny. Rather than teach interpretive skills, too many ministries and preachers seem content to offer the "Biblical view" or the "Christian answer." Too many of us see the church not as a place where texts are wrestled with, but as a vendor for inscrutable answers. If we develop the capacity to teach critical and reflective thought processes, if we are effective at teaching context, culture, and history to our communities, then the spaces that set apart our churches will be free to grapple with all sorts of texts - both those from the scriptures, and those from the chatbots.

If we fail to make these commitments and develop these habits, our sacred spaces may be eroded by ChatGPT. Who needs a pastor to give you vocational advice when OpenAI is available to you in all times and places?

But if we become skilled facilitators of life's biggest questions, we might just find that AI becomes something of a sidekick.

Rather than supplant the church as the location for these conversations, ChatGPT may spark curiosity and inspire confidence.

AI may initiate deeper conversations within Christian communities.

AI, then, becomes the doorway to the sacred spaces that define religion. It becomes a portal to conversations that are meaningful, life-giving, and set apart.

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@ryanpanzer is the author of two books on church in a digital age.

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