AI, Poetry and the Eye of the Needle

 20th Sunday after Trinity Year B Proper 23

 Eucharist – 13.x.2024

 (Amos 5.6-7, 10-15; Hebrews 4.12-16; Mark 10.17-31)

I was in Hartlepool yesterday to take the opportunity of a dry morning to cut the grass in the garden of my family home. I’d almost finished when my neighbour turned up from walking her dog. She’s in the early stages of writing the dissertation for a Master’s degree, and we discussed her progress, techniques and the approach she’s expected to take. I was a bit surprised to hear that not only is the use of Artificial Intelligence (AI) permitted, it’s actually encouraged – and then I remembered hearing something on the news about hopes that AI will allow doctors and researchers in the Health Service to accomplish far more than they can by present means. “I’ve never used it,” I said – and when I wrote my Master’s dissertation technology hadn’t advanced any further than Netscape Navigator. “I’m doubtful whether it could pull off a sermon.” “Well,” she replied, “it can write poems. I’ll get it to write you one about cutting the grass. She pulled out her phone, spoke into it and ten seconds later said, “There you are.”

This is the poem that AI wrote about me:

Martin’s out with his new mower,

its hum a morning song,

cutting lines so neat and even,

he’s been at it all day long.

(actually not true – it took less than an hour but that’s poetic licence)

He starts with pride, his shoulders back,

as the engine roars to life,

blades slicing through the stubborn grass,

sharp as any knife.

The lawn beneath him bends in waves,

green clippings whirl in air,

his mower hums like it’s alive,

both working with such care.

I watch from where I sit and sip,

as Martin makes his way,

with each pass, a bit more perfect,

each inch a brighter day.

He smiles as if this patch of green

is all he needs to own,

and when he’s done, his mower purrs,

like it’s claimed the lawn as home.

So what do you expect?... After that I went into the house, fired up the laptop, found an AI app called “Copilot,” and instructed it, “write a sermon with reference to Amos 5.6–7, 10–15; Hebrews 4.12–16; Mark 10.17–31.” In less than five seconds it did! And it got the point to a certain extent; and it was short, so maybe I should have just let you have what it delivered.

But I’m afraid it was also rather prosaic. Anything that starts:

Today’s sermon explores justice, compassion, and the power of divine truth, referencing Amos 5.6–7, 10–15; Hebrews 4.12–16; and Mark 10.17–31.

And then it goes through each passage in turn using phrases like, “the prophet Amos speaks of the importance of seeking the Lord to live and thrive…” “The message here is clear…” “This is a timeless reminder….” It gets worse when it gets on to the reading from Hebrews: 

It emphasizes the active and discerning nature of God’s word, 
encouraging us to be introspective and sincere in our faith journey.

It ends with a summing up that begins, “In synthesis…” and concludes:

Let’s strive to live a life that reflects these divine principles, becoming a beacon of God’s love and justice in our world. Amen.

So… I want to say that if you’re stuck for something to preach, don’t rely on AI to write your sermon!

But meanwhile… my neighbour had written me another poem. I don’t know why, but I’d told her that we’re having to advertise the proposed Pastoral Scheme which will bring us together with our neighbouring parishes into a Team Ministry. I didn’t need to tell her, but I have to tell you – and some people have actually read the whole thing and noticed that the Pastoral Scheme says I will be retiring in 2026. That’s not necessarily true. That’s simply the year when, because of my age, it’s expected that I will have to retire. Anyway, this found its way into the new AI poem:

Oh Martin, vicar, wise and kind,

perhaps it’s time to free your mind.

You’ve preached your share of peace and grace,

but there’s a new path you could embrace.

For when you mow, the world is still,

no sermons, prayers, or souls to fill.

Just blades of grass beneath your feet,

each row you cut, a calm retreat.

The hum of mowers beats the bells,

no weekly rush, no vestry smells.

The parish can find peace anew,

but, Martin, the lawns—they call for you!

Each blade you trim, each line you make,

is peace that sermons rarely stake.

The stripes you leave, so straight and true,

might be the gospel meant for you.

So hang the collar, shed the vest,

and trade your robes for mower’s zest.

The lawns are waiting, fresh and wide,

retire, Martin, mow with pride!

This is not the announcement of my retirement – but it’s enticing!

And what does it say? It says that poetry can express better what needs to be said than turgid exposition of scripture and moralising conclusions.

So – you guessed it – I asked AI to write a poem about today’s readings. It was better than the sermon – but not great:

In the shadow of the ancient prophets' call, 
Where justice flows and bitter judgments fall, 
Seek good, not evil, let the light unfurl, 
For in the hearts of men, a chance to whirl.

Note the non-inclusive language, and the archaic forms – the second verse didn’t say anything in particular so I’ll miss it out.. It goes on to the Gospel:

A ruler rich, a seeker of the way, 

Asked of the path, and Jesus dared to say, 

Sell all you have, give to the ones in need, 

For treasures in the heavens, plant the seed.

And it ends:

Oh, Kingdom sought, with undivided heart, 

Where mercy, love, and justice never part,

In faith, we stride, in grace, we stand tall, 

Embodying the greatest love of all.

Not a success, I think. If you want to find what’s fresh, stick to Scripture itself, and the response we’re called to make.

What’s going on when we find ourselves listening to those words which speak to us from the Bible? I found myself thinking about that on my day off when I went up the coast to Newbiggin-by-the-Sea. Just after Sandy Bay – and before you go into the town – there’s a signpost to the “Needle’s Eye” Car Park. I’d never noticed it before. It turns out that the Needle’s Eye must be a feature on the map. There’s a “Needle’s Eye” Café too. But I don’t know where the name comes from. Except we’ve got Jesus’ words about the challenge of faith: “It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for someone who is rich to enter the kingdom of God.” People have argued about whether there was a gate in Jerusalem called the “Eye of the Needle,” which might have been too low for a camel laden with goods to pass through. The merchant on his way to market would have to unload all his wares before the camel could get through. But actually there’s no evidence for such a gate. There’s just the question: what is Jesus talking about when he comes out with these words: “It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for someone who is rich to enter the kingdom of God.” We don’t know. But it makes us think, just as I found myself thinking about the Needle’s Eye near Newbiggin – just as we all need to think about the riches we take for granted, wealth that might be weighing us down and stopping us from going where we should.

Those AI poems made me think about what I’m doing when I’m mowing the lawn. My neighbour wanted me to think about that in relation to my day job – what I’d call my vocation.

But I come back finally to those words of scripture which challenge us today. That eye of a needle which the camel can’t pass through. “The word of God (which) is living and active…” as Hebrews tells us. The call of the prophet Amos: 

Seek good and not evil, that you may live;… 

Hate evil and love good, and establish justice in the gate.