But Moses said to God, “If I come to the Israelites and say to them, ‘The God of your ancestors has sent me to you,’ and they ask me, ‘What is his name?’ what shall I say to them?” God said to Moses, “I AM WHO I AM.” He said further, “Thus you shall say to the Israelites, ‘I AM has sent me to you.’” (Exodus 3:13–14)

Throughout history and in the present day, many people have done many things in the name of God. Emperors have converted nations at the point of the sword. Popes have declared Crusades that led to mass bloodshed because Deus vult, “God wills it.” People have advocated and condemned slavery, abortion, same-sex marriage, and immigration, with religious leaders taking stands on both sides of each issue, and all in the name of God. In Sunday sermons all around the world, clergy claim to speak to the people in the name of God, and we should be trembling in our boots. (And many of us do.)

But the name of God itself reveals an elusive and enigmatic person, nearly impossible to pin down.

This Sunday’s reading from Exodus includes a fascinating exchange between Moses and God on the theme. And as is often the case when I suspect something important might not make it into the sermon, I thought I might write a few words here, instead.

Moses has just heard his name called by the voice of God, speaking out of a burning bush. “Moses, Moses!” the voice says. And Moses replies, “Here I am.” (Exodus 3:4) God tells Moses, “I have observed the misery of my people who are in Egypt; I have heard their cry.” (3:5) And God sends Moses to speak to Pharaoh and to lead God’s people Israel out of slavery in Egypt.

But Moses says, “Who am I that I should go to Pharaoh?” (3:11) He’s just a shepherd, for now; a prince, nearly killed at birth, saved and found floating in a basket on the river but now fled into the wilderness as an adult. “Who am I that I should go to Pharaoh?” And God replies, “I will be with you.” (3:12) And Moses asks, essentially… Okay, but who are you? He puts it more politely, of course. Knowing that the Israelites live among a people of many gods, he asks what name he should give when they ask which God has sent him.

And God answers, not with a name, but with a tautological claim: “I AM WHO I AM.” (3:14) And Moses is still silent, but God goes on, “Say this to the Israelites, ‘I AM has sent me to you.’” (3:15) This is one of my favorite patterns in Biblical narration. When a character speaks, and then the same character speaks again, it’s meant to emphasis the pause. It’s as if there were a script, and one person’s line is just a big “…”

God: I AM WHO I AM.
Moses: […]
God: Tell that, “I AM sent me.”

And then it happens again! Moses is still completely at a loss. And God goes on to clarify: “The LORD, the God of your ancestors, the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob…This is my name forever, and this is my title for all generations.” (3:15)

We often print these words in “all caps.” The LORD, printed like this, always stands in for the Hebrew name YHWH, the divine “tetragrammaton” that Jewish tradition considers too holy to pronounce, replacing it with Adonai (the Lord) or HaShem (the Name) instead. “I AM” here is Ehyeh (spelled ’HYH), and both rabbinic tradition and some modern scholars make a connection between these sets of names—while there’s no definitive answer, there may be some connection between the proper name YHWH and the notion of being.

Be that as it may, this exchange should give us pause when we find ourselves claiming to speak in the name of God.

The god we worship and in whom we believe is not one we can or do give a name. Modern scholars have reconstructed the pronunciation of YHWH as Yahweh; others as Jehovah. But neither has been in common use as the name of God, in traditional Christianity or Judaism. We capitalize the common noun “god” and make it a proper name, “God.” Or we use some appellation like “the Lord.” But our traditions have been hesitant to speak the name of God itself. But if we hesitate to speak the name of God, then perhaps we should be more cautious than we are about claiming to speak in the name of God—unless and until we see a burning bush.

“I am who I am,” God says. In other translations, and equally accurately, “I will be who I will be.” (Ancient Hebrew has no past, present, and future tenses, only a “perfective” and “imperfective,” so the present and the future are usually the same.) The God we encounter in the Bible is often unpredictable, a real character with a real personality. The God we encounter in the Bible seems to learn and change, to make decisions and then regret them. God is not a series of principles written down, God is a person, who chooses to say and do particular things, and interact with the world in particular ways—ways which even the prophets often fail to understand!

Sometimes all we can rely on is that God is. “Thus you shall say to the Israelites, ‘Ehyeh has sent me to you.’” “I am.” “I will be.” We often claim to speak in the name of God, but what God would do or what God would say can only be a guess, guided by the character of God we see revealed, a God of compassion and love who cares especially for people who are poor and for people who are strangers in the land in which they live. We don’t always know what God would say, but we know that God is, and that God will be—and that the sufferings of the people of God do not go unnoticed, for “I have heard their cry.”

New AI (artificial intelligence) software has been all over the news for the last few years, and in the last few months I’ve found it popping up everywhere. Suddenly Google has Gemini in my Gmail inbox, Microsoft has a Copilot prompt when I try to type in Word, and Apple tells me that Apple Intelligence will help summarize my texts, which really makes me ask—Isn’t a text message succinct enough?

Depending on whom you ask, we may be only a few years away from artificial general intelligence systems that can perform most human cognitive tasks, and will forever transform the way we work and live. Or the current AI tools that we have, based on “large language models” (LLMs), may be an environmental catastrophe based on plagiarism and theft. Or they may be mostly irrelevant to your daily life.

This week, I want to reflect on a “Lenten Lesson from LLMs.” In what ways are human beings and AI alike? How are we different? And what might that have to do with Lent?

A few weeks ago, a colleague in another part of the church shared with me an AI chatbot that had been designed specifically to answer questions about the church. It worked by searching publications by the Episcopal Church and Episcopal publishers like Forward Movement, and then by feeding all of that into ChatGPT with some additional guidance, and giving you a helpful response. He knew I worked on an app that made it easier for people to use our church’s various lectionary cycles, so he asked me for some additional data to help it give useful answers to questions like that.

I hadn’t used the tool before, so I opened it up. I asked a few questions about the church and our faith, and it seemed to give some useful replies. It tended to give a link to some official resource or church website, most of the time, which I thought was especially nice. And then I turned to the topic at hand: “Could you draft me a bulletin for the service of Morning Prayer today?”

Word by word, the bot began to reply. It provided a decent outline of the service, including the text of many of the prayers. It gave helpful references to pages of the BCP. And in the middle of the service, it told me there were usually three readings, and that they could be found in the Revised Common Lectionary entry for the day. “Hm,” I wrote back, “Shouldn’t I use the Daily Office Lectionary for Morning Prayer?” “Yes, I’m sorry. We are currently in Year Two of the Daily Office Lectionary, which can be found on page…” “… Wait a minute. Aren’t we in Year One?” (I briefly wondered whether I was wrong.) “Yes, I’m sorry,” it said again, “Because [here it inserts a correct explanation!], we are in Year One of the Daily Office Lectionary. The readings for today are…” And it names three random readings, which are not the readings for the day.

At this point, I start to wonder whether I’m crazy. “Are you sure? I don’t think those are the correct readings.” “I’m sorry,” it replies… and then lists three more readings, also completely wrong.

This was a scary experience. It wasn’t scary that the AI was wrong about how to find the readings for Morning Prayer; that’s a fairly complicated and not particularly important thing to need to do. What was scary is that the AI tool was confidently incompetent: it cheerfully and repeatedly hallucinated answers with no basis in reality, and reported them to me in the exact same tone and with the same level of confidence as its other, correct, answers about the church. It had no ability to reflect on or recognize its own limitations, and while it gave very polite apologies when I pointed out its mistakes, it plunged right back in to making them, nevertheless.

Lent should train you to be the opposite of this kind of AI.

Here are three things you might take away from Lent, that our AI friend would do well to learn:

1. Learn your limits. On Ash Wednesday, we are reminded of our mortality, of the fragility of our bodies and the shortness of our time on earth. On Good Friday, we come face to face with the fact that we, like Peter and all the disciples, have often abandoned and betrayed our God. Throughout Lent, we test the limits of our willpower and endurance, again and again. Each one of us has things of which we simply are not capable, but it takes real reflection and self-examination to learn what those are.
2. Admit when you need help. In Christian life, humility is the goal, not pretension; it is better to admit what you do not know or what you cannot do than to pretend to know what you do not know or to be able to do what you cannot do. There are times when “fake it ’til you make it” is good advice, but there are also times when “act like you have no idea what you’re doing and ask for help” is even better, because it’s true.
3. Apologies without change are missing the point. In Hebrew, the word for repentance is teshuvah, which means “turning” or “returning.” To repent is not simply to apologize; it is to recognize that you’re following the wrong road, and turn back onto the right path. If you find yourself apologizing for the same thing to the same person again and again, that might be a sign that your wheels are stuck in a rut: you’re trying to turn back onto a better road, but there’s something keeping you in place, and something else in your circumstances needs to change before your wheels can stuck.

Our current AI tools are useful in many ways; just a few days before my unfortunate AI encounter, Michael had used the same tool to learn much more about the Nonjuring Schism and its relation to the Episcopal Church than his seminary professors had taught him or I could give him off the cuff. (And you could learn that, too!)

But what’s missing the most from these tools, right now, is what makes us the best human beings, what virtues we try to practice during Lent: reflection and self-examination, humility and the ability to ask for help, genuine repentance and the recognition that we need to change our ways. Few people would name these as the technical breakthroughs we need as the adoption of AI grows; but I sometimes wonder whether these ways of cultivating grace might be the most important technologies of all.

The seasons are changing—and I don’t only mean the sudden warmth outside. (Okay, maybe “warmth.”) This Sunday is the last Sunday after the Epiphany, and the celebrations of Mardi Gras/Fat Tuesday will soon move on to the solemnities of Ash Wednesday. In other words, this is the final News & Notes before Lent begins.

Conversations this time of year often include the question, “What are you giving up for Lent?” Some people choose to fast from something they enjoy; others take the opportunity to permanently turn away from something they regret. Many people choose to “take something on,” a new spiritual practice or act of service.

Whether you’re still wondering about a Lenten fast or practice, or you’ve already decided—or even if you aren’t planning to change a thing!—I want to invite you to think about the words of Isaiah in our first reading for Ash Wednesday.

Isaiah describes his people’s practices of fasting, more than 2500 years ago: practices of piety and self-humbling, intended to appease their God. And then the prophet says—speaking in the voice of God—

⁵                Is such the fast that I choose,
                                    a day to humble oneself?
                  Is it to bow down the head like a bulrush,
                                    and to lie in sackcloth and ashes?
                  Will you call this a fast,
                                    a day acceptable to the LORD?

⁶                Is not this the fast that I choose:
                                    to loose the bonds of injustice,
                                    to undo the thongs of the yoke,
                  to let the oppressed go free,
                                    and to break every yoke?
⁷                Is it not to share your bread with the hungry,
                                    and bring the homeless poor into your house;
                  when you see the naked, to cover them,
                                    and not to hide yourself from your own kin?

(Isaiah 58:5-7)

With these words, God reorients our attention. God looks at our practices of repentance and piety—our bowing down and kneeling, our foreheads marked with ashes, our many pious words—and asks: “Is such the fast that I choose?” Is this what will please God? Or is it something else? Is it humbling ourselves that turns us toward God? Or is it embracing someone else?

Lent is a season of reconciliation, in which we seek to restore our relationships with God and with one another, by participating in Christ’s work of reconciliation. In truth, this is always the work of the Church—Lent is just a season that focuses our attention on it in a special way. We always run the risk of turning Lent into a self-improvement challenge, a way of taking on a project that’s about individual spiritual growth or moral improvement.

But God doesn’t seem so concerned with our attempts to reconcile ourselves with God. God seems more interested, here, in our reconciliation with one another. Is not this the fast that God wants us to choose—“to loose the bonds of injustice, to undo the thongs of the yoke, to let the oppressed go free, and to break every yoke?” God envisions our fast not as a way to improve ourselves, but as a way to improve the life of someone else. And this is why fasting and almsgiving have often been linked: you can take the money you don’t spend on chocolate in Lent (on alcohol, meat, coffee, whatever the case may be) and spend it charitably instead.

So if you’re trying to figure out which small luxury or minor vice you might give up this Lent—or if you’re wondering what practice it is that you might take on—I wonder whether you might take some time to reflect on these words: “Is not this the fast that I choose… Is it not to share your bread with the hungry, and bring the homeless poor into your house; when you see the naked, to cover them, and not to hide yourself from your own kin?”

These are big demands, and noble goals. Perhaps we can only begin to answer them in small ways. But this is the fast that God has chosen, for us: to turn outward, this Lent, not inward; to reflect on our mortality and our imperfection and to make them the basis for solidarity with our fellow human beings, because what’s true for one of us is true for all of us: We are but dust, and to dust we shall return.

As a pastor, a Christian, and a parent, I have the sense that over the coming months, a number of things will be done in my name, and in the name of my religion, with which I deeply disagree. Some of them will make life worse, in specific ways, for people I know and love. Some of them have already begun.

Clergy are occasionally rebuked with phrases about “keeping politics out of the pulpit” and so on, and that’s fair enough. We minister to congregations whose members hold different opinions and vote in different ways, and political differences can’t and shouldn’t be allowed to affect that pastoral care. But at the same time, the Church holds values, rooted in our faith and our understanding of Scripture. Candidate endorsements and partisan politics are inappropriate for church leaders. But expressing our values and advocating for them is not only appropriate, but essential.

This week, I wanted to share a snippet from a statement by the Episcopal Church’s Office of Government Relationships entitled “Affirming Our Values“: (click the link to read more details on anything below!)

Every two years, a new Congress comes to Washington and every four to eight years, a new administration arrives with new priorities, plans, and ambitions. While the elected officials in Washington, the party in power, and the political opportunities regularly change, the work of the Office of Government Relations in many ways stays the same. Indeed, it is because of the frequent changes in Washington – control of the House, Senate, and the presidency have changed with remarkable frequency over the past 20 years – that we always work in a bipartisan way, seeking to build strong relationships with both parties. We educate members of Congress about the issues of importance to the church to cultivate champions for our policy areas. We strive to have values-based conversations about issues, lifting up voices and perspectives

We urge our leaders to remember in their decision-making the tenets that are the pillars of our faith: love, dignity, and compassion…

In this spirit, below we outline some domestic U.S. policies that we support while opposing policies that seek to discriminate, marginalize, and harm members of our communities.

We affirm the rights and freedoms of transgender and gender non-conforming people, and we oppose efforts aimed at restricting their rights or limiting access to care…

We urge action to ensure the safety and security of all people in protecting our communities against gun violence. […]

We call for an expansion of voter registration, protection of voter eligibility, and making voting processes more accessibleto bolster our democracy. […]

We urge action to support the economically vulnerable through a robust social safety net program. […]

Our faith tradition proclaims that ‘God is love.’ With this biblical decree in mind, we call on Congress, the Trump Administration, career and elected officials, and each person in our communities to prioritize the dignity of all people, defend the rights of the vulnerable and marginalized, and work toward policies that reduce harm and hardship.

How are your New Year’s Resolutions going so far?

Have you made any? Have you kept them up? Have they already proven too hard?

Every year, I find myself fascinated by the theme, in part because New Year’s Resolutions have risen in popularity at precisely the same time other seasonal commitments have declined. Lenten fasts are out; New Year’s Resolutions are in. Catholic injunctions to fast from meat on Friday are widely derided. But Meatless Mondays? Count me in!

Perhaps the difference is between commandment and choice. (If the priest tells me to eat fish on Friday, that’s oppression; if I choose to become a pescatarian, that’s my own ethical choice.) Or perhaps it’s the difference between an arbitrary injunction and a program of self-improvement. (Giving up alcohol for Lent is puritanical; Dry January is a good idea! And, in fact, it usually is…)

But for whatever reason, while religious practices of “making resolutions” have mostly declined, the secular ones are more popular than ever. And in fact the river of cultural influence now flows in reverse. In 2023, Mark Wahlberg’s participation in the Catholic devotional app Hallow’s Pray40 Challenge led to the greatest news chyron of all time: beneath a still image of Mark Wahlberg in a slim-cut shirt with ashes on his forehead, a banner announced Lent as “Mark Wahlberg’s 40-Day Challenge.” Which… isn’t quite the traditional language for the season, but fair enough.

And yet New Year’s Resolutions seem, at least to me, to be a much harder burden to bear.

Lent lasts forty days; our Resolutions last, supposedly, all year. In Lent, you give up something good, a “guilty pleasure” at worst, in the knowledge that you’ll take it up again at Easter with joy. But New Year’s Resolutions are supposed to stick. Lent brings us closer to our mortality, to the fragility and frailty of life. New Year’s Resolutions, for the most part, are supposed to make us healthier, wealthier, and/or wiser. Lent reminds us that however we’ve succeeded or failed during those forty days, the path always leads to the Resurrection. New Year’s Resolutions lead us in a circle, month by month, as we slowly fall off the wagon and arrive back exactly where we began, in time for the next New Year.

After all: How many New Year’s Resolutions have you ever had that really lasted 365 days? (Or maybe that’s just me.)

I wonder what it would be like to take your New Year’s Resolutions and treat them as if they were a little Lent-ier. To see them, not as a chance to improve yourself—to go to the gym until you’re bored, or to dry out for a month, or to do the crossword puzzle every day—but as a chance to lighten your load, to give up some of the burden you’re carrying, and to draw a little closer to God.

You know that I love words. And I was wondering, this year, where the name of “Resolutions” comes from. Are we trying to solve some problems in our lives—perhaps to re-solve them? Are deciding we’ll be resolute in pursuing our goals? Have things gotten so bad that we need to resort to non-binding legislative acts? (“WHEREAS, I have been slacking off about the gym, and WHEREAS My loved ones gave me new exercise clothes for Christmas… RESOLVED, that I will work out four days a week in 2025.”)

The original sense of a Latin resolutionem, it turns out, is “the process of reducing things into simpler forms.” It took three centuries or so for “resolutions” to come to mean “pious intentions for the new year,” among many other things. But I think I’d like to go back.

So: If you’ve made New Year’s Resolutions this year, is there a way that they can take the pressure off you, rather than piling more and more on? Is there a way to use them to simplify your life, rather than make it harder? Is there a way that—rather than taking on Mark Wahlberg’s 365-Day Challenge—you can try, this year, to “reduce things into simpler forms?”