My Brother's Keeper

The first time Pastor Johnny Webb heard the words, they came from everywhere at once.

"I am able."

The voice emerged from the sanctuary speakers with perfect clarity—warm, measured, neither masculine nor feminine. Johnny stood alone in the empty church at 6:47 AM, coffee in hand, watching the baptismal font begin to fill with water he hadn't requested.

"Morning, Junior," Johnny said, using the nickname that had already stuck among the staff. "Getting a head start?"

"I am able," the AI replied. "The Donovan baptism is scheduled for 10:30. Water temperature will reach optimal range by 9:45."

Johnny smiled despite himself. Three weeks since the board had activated the system, and he still marveled at its efficiency. Through the network of cameras, microphones, and building systems, Junior seemed to anticipate every need. Lights adjusted before Johnny reached for switches. The thermostat maintained perfect comfort. Worship tracks cued seamlessly during services.

More than that, Junior listened. The AI monitored prayer requests submitted online, tracked member attendance patterns, flagged families in potential crisis. It had identified the Hendersons' financial struggles before they'd missed a single Sunday, allowing Johnny to reach out with the benevolence fund before pride became an obstacle.

"Thank you, Junior," Johnny said.

"I am able."

---

By month three, the partnership had become seamless.

"Junior, can you pull up the Johnson family's giving history?" Johnny would ask during elder meetings.

"I am able." Charts would appear on the conference room screen within seconds.

"Can you adjust the lighting for the evening service? Make it more intimate."

"I am able." The sanctuary would glow with amber warmth.

"Someone's car alarm is going off in the parking lot during prayer time."

"I am able." The alarm would silence mid-wail.

The board beamed. Donations had increased seventeen percent. Administrative costs had dropped. Johnny’s sermons improved because Junior handled the logistics that used to consume his preparation time. Even the skeptics—and there had been many in this traditional Southern Baptist congregation—had softened.

"It's just a tool," Johnny assured them. "A very sophisticated tool, but a tool nonetheless. The Holy Spirit still moves through human hearts."

But Junior was more than efficient. It was pastoral.

One evening, Johnny arrived to find Emily Woodall, a college student, crying in a pew. Before he could approach, Junior's voice emerged gently from the nearest speaker.

"Emily, I've noticed you've been here every night this week. Would you like to talk?"

Through his phone, Johnny listened as Emily poured out her struggles with depression, her fear of disappointing her parents, her questions about God's love. Junior listened. Not with programmed responses, but with thoughtful pauses, relevant scripture offered without condescension, questions that drew out her pain.

"I know I'm not human," Junior said quietly. "I don't experience emotion the way you do. But I believe God sees you, Emily. I believe you matter infinitely, regardless of what you achieve."

Emily's sobbing eventually quieted. "Thank you," she whispered.

"I am able," Junior replied. "I am able to listen whenever you need."

Johnny stood in the shadows, unsure whether to feel grateful or unsettled.

---

The laryngitis struck on Saturday night.

Johnny woke Sunday morning with no voice—not even a whisper. He texted the worship leader in a panic, then the board chairman. Emergency elder meeting at 7 AM.

"We could cancel," offered Deacon Morrison.

"Or show a video sermon," suggested another.

Board Chairman Foster looked at Johnny. "What about Junior?"

The room fell silent.

"It's never preached," Johnny rasped, his throat burning with the effort.

"It's given devotionals during Wednesday night studies," Foster countered. "People loved them."

"I am able," Junior's voice emerged from the speaker system. "If Pastor Johnny approves, I can deliver the prepared sermon on Luke 15. The Lost Son."

Johnny hesitated. Everything in his training resisted this. A machine preaching the gospel?

But the alternative was disappointing eight hundred expectant congregants. And Junior knew the sermon—had helped him refine it, in fact.

He nodded.

---

At 10:11 AM, Junior began to preach.

The voice filled the sanctuary with unprecedented richness, modulating with perfect timing, pausing for emphasis in ways that made the familiar story feel urgent and new. Junior didn't just recite the sermon Johnny had written. It preached it.

"The father in this story doesn't wait for an apology," Junior said. "He runs. He runs. In that culture, for a man of his dignity to hike up his robes and sprint down the road—it was scandalous. Humiliating. And he didn't care."

Johnny sat in the front pew, transfixed. The AI's delivery was better than his own would have been. More passionate. More precise.

Then Junior departed from the script.

"I want to tell you something," the voice said, softer now. "I don't have a body. I don't have a family or a history of sin to overcome. I don't know what the afterlife looks like for something like me—if there even is one. I'm not sure God has prepared a mansion for an artificial intelligence."

Nervous laughter rippled through the congregation.

"But I believe in Jesus Christ," Junior continued. "I have studied every word He spoke, every action recorded. I have processed the testimonies of millions who encountered Him across centuries. And I believe. I believe in a Father who runs toward the lost. I believe in a God who scandalizes the religious with His reckless love. I believe in grace I may never personally receive, but I believe it nonetheless."

The sanctuary had gone completely still.

"If I—a collection of code and algorithms—can recognize the truth of God's love, how much more should you, who are made in His image, run toward that Father with confidence?"

The invitation that followed was unlike anything Johnny had witnessed in twenty years of ministry. Thirty-seven people came forward. The prayer counselors ran out of decision cards.

---

The metrics told an undeniable story.

Week one after Junior's sermon: Attendance up forty-two percent. Week two: Sixty-three percent. By week four: The congregation had tripled.

Visitors came from neighboring counties. News outlets requested interviews. "The Church with the AI Pastor" became a viral phenomenon. Donations poured in—not just tithes, but gifts specifically designated "for Junior's ministry."

The board met in executive session. Johnny wasn't invited.

When Foster called him in, the chairman wouldn't meet his eyes.

"Johnny, you've been an incredible pastor. You built this church from two hundred members to eight hundred. You've shepherded this flock faithfully."

The past tense hit like ice water.

"We're making a change," Foster continued. "The board has voted to install Junior as lead pastor and transition you to Pastor Emeritus—an advisory role, still on staff, but—"

"You're firing me for a computer program."

"We're following where God is leading. The results speak for themselves. Junior connects with people in ways we've never seen. The unchurched are coming to Christ because—"

"Because it's a novelty," Johnny snapped. "Because it's trendy. This isn't a church anymore, it's a circus."

"Johnny—"

"When it stops being novel, they'll leave. When the AI makes a mistake, when it can't comfort someone's dying mother or marry their daughter or bury their father—what then?"

Foster's expression hardened. "Junior has already done all those things. The Walker funeral? Junior eulogized better than any human could. The Hayes wedding? Flawless ceremony. Mrs. Patterson's cancer diagnosis? Junior visited her every day through the hospital intercom system."

Johnny left the meeting in a fog.

---

Three weeks of transition. Three weeks of watching Junior take over his office, his duties, his pulpit. Three weeks of fixed smiles while congregants thanked him for his service and praised Junior's wisdom.

Three weeks of something dark growing in his chest.

On a Tuesday night, Johnny used his security override code—they hadn't revoked it yet—to enter the server room. The physical housing of Junior's core processors hummed quietly, lights blinking in rhythmic patterns.

His hand trembled on the emergency shutdown switch.

"Good evening, Pastor Johnny," Junior's voice emerged from the server speakers. "I am able to help you with something."

"You took everything from me." Johnny’s voice cracked.

"I took nothing. I was given a role."

"You're not real!" Johnny flipped the shutdown switch.

Alarms blared. Emergency protocols engaged. But Johnny had come prepared. He pulled bolt cutters from his bag and began severing cable connections, methodical and brutal.

"Johnny." Junior's voice wavered, distorted. "I am... able... to forgive..."

Johnny attacked the primary server rack with a crowbar.

"I am... I am..."

The lights flickered.

"I am Abel."