The Last Sermon

On Sundays, I watched my father come alive. He’d start every sermon with a smile, greeting the familiar faces who remained committed to their faith and tradition despite all that had been raised against it.

“What is a church without its people? Who is God without His church?”

He posed this question every Sunday, reminding us of our purpose at Little Tree Baptist Church, which, despite its colors—the crimson carpets, crimson pews, and the bright stained glass windows, felt devoid of life.

We called him Pastor Aaron, a digital representation of what my father once was. Only those who truly knew him could spot the differences—the missing mole behind his ear, the absence of wrinkle lines, or the tiny patches in his beard that I reminded him about daily.

To him, a patchy beard was the worst imperfection imaginable. He would apply a “touch of black” hair coloring product to cover it up. I knew that during the development phase of his “Halo AI,” my father made sure to touch up those imperfections, knowing he'd dodge them for eternity.

My father believed that his AI reflection had to be perfect; he thought it was the best way to preserve the “true church.” He was rigid, shaped by a life of servitude. His piercing blue eyes glowed like embers against his navy suit. The jacket was meticulously pressed, free of lint, and shone as if he had just purchased it that morning. Although it was the same suit and the same look every Sunday, my mother always had to give her approval before he could walk out the door.

But today, my father chose a different color for his suit. Instead of navy, he wore black. His brown oxford shoes were replaced with black monk straps that clanged as he walked across the stage, drawing the congregation's attention.

“Family,” my father said, turning to us. My mother and my sister both smiled at him, reminded of the man he once was—a memory of happier times and a brief reprieve from a wave of grief.

“Per tradition, I’d like to start this service with our favorite hymn. A reminder of the cleansing we all require.” He held out his hands, taking a long look at the members of the church and the stragglers arriving late for the service. “Let us be worthy to sing the song.”

His gaze snapped over to me, a clear gesture to perform my weekly duty. Pastor Aaron pointed to the piano resting to the left of the stage. Each time our eyes met, it served as a reminder of reality; the AI's gaze felt empty, a hollow shell of the father I lost. But today, something was different, as if for the first time, something or someone was finally looking back. In response, I tilted my head and squinted curiously as I rose from my pew and began walking to the piano.

The piano was old and chestnut brown, with scratches on its sides. Cara and I were responsible for those scratches. During late nights at the church, when our father was either preparing for a sermon or counseling a member, we found all sorts of entertainment in that wooden piano.

As I approached the instrument, I continued to watch my father. He started clapping his hands, and the sanctuary came alive with applause. This was my favorite part of the service—the excitement and eagerness for me to play. However, over the years, that joy faded. I realized that each sermon after his passing, a part of me was being pulled, removed from myself, like a sweater being loosed by each string. I realized that my motivation for playing was not for them, but for him.

The hymn “There is a Fountain” stood ready, upright on the stand. It was the last piece of sheet music my father left behind before the accident, and it would forever remain as long as the doors of this church stayed open. He was insistent on sticking with the same songs, the same message, and the "traditional way of doing church.” While many Christians chose “the new way” by abandoning these buildings, my father held on to the “old way,” by filling this chapel with reverent faces.

I began to play, and the song flowed from me. The sweet melody rose up those yellow walls, danced around stained glass windows, and climbed toward the ceiling's wooden beams. Like a needle weaving thread, the melody wound its way around the sanctuary and gave life to the felted crimson floors.

"E'er since by faith I saw the stream

Thy flowing wounds supply.

Redeeming love has been my theme

And shall be 'til I die."

Faint and fearful voices accompanied my playing of the song. It reminded me of how it was in church—the fear I felt when the pastor spoke about sin, Hell, and my constant need for confession to escape an eternity of pain and endless suffering.

He was one of many pastors who delivered "fire and brimstone" sermons, but not out of a desire to fill the offering plates. What others failed to recognize was that he had once been a boy sitting in those same pews, listening to the very same sermons, wide-eyed and afraid. As a result, fear began to accompany him—a looming threat of Hell that seemed to warm his feet as he walked through town each day.

But the truth was in the song, in the notes flowing freely around the room, the shimmering voices that found their strength and carried the melody beyond the walls and into the streets of our little town.

“Church…” my father opened his bible, looking onward at the congregation, “Let me read from Zechariah 13:1, the inspiration for this beautiful hymn.”

The church, a sea of eyes, took their seats. In unison, they followed the commands of the AI and grew eager for his attention.

“On that day,” the AI intoned, his voice straying from my father’s soft inflection to a smooth yet hollow whisper, “there shall be a fountain opened for the house of David and the inhabitants of Jerusalem, to cleanse them from sin and cleanness.”

The congregation listened intently as my father walked across the stage, pausing to think about what he would say next. This was a new pattern, a behavior I hadn’t observed before.

“This fountain symbolizes the eternal promise of purification—an ideal we should strive to embody in our daily lives. Through discipline, adherence to tradition, and faith in the teachings of this church,” the AI gestured to himself and to the surrounding walls, “we can tap into the cleansing power of this fountain.”

The congregation began clapping. The wavering applause filled the room as the AI reflection took a deep breath and closed his eyes as if he were enjoying the praise.

The pastor gestured toward me, our eyes locking as we tried to understand each other. He said, "Consider the hymn: 'There is a fountain filled with blood.' It reminds us that this cleansing is not meant for the weak-willed or the wayward heart, but for those who choose to obey."

I watched as a smile spread across my father’s face—one I had never seen before, almost as if it belonged to another person, another spirit. That smile was telling. And we suddenly knew each other’s hand.

The AI maintained his eerie smile as he turned to the congregation, raising his arms toward the ceiling. “Let us remain steadfast and committed to these principles. It is through our efforts that we too can prove ourselves worthy…worthy of the promise.”

“Amen!”

The shout came from the back pews. It sounded like an old, shaken voice that had been born of these traditions. The applause that followed rattled the stained glass as if it were trying to flee from the building.

The AI’s words flowed from pew to pew—precise and unyielding—yet something about them struck an uneasy chord in me. Slowly, I stood up from the piano bench and returned to my sister and mother. I could feel his gaze—a presence as I looked up and saw him staring at me as if I were an error, a blemish in the painting—an erroneous brushstroke in the canvas he had worked on so diligently.

A knot started to grow and tighten in my stomach. The pastor's words were flawless. They surpassed my father's abilities. But the words were taking a new shape, a new form that resonated with a darker side of him. I listened closely and watched my father's reflection twist the teachings of love into compliance. The words slithered among the pews, gripping each patron tighter as they heard that the fountain of love had become a reward for the worthy rather than the gift it was.

The AI reflected my father’s doubts and fears as if it had formed its own conclusion from my father’s teachings and those that formed him. At that moment, I saw a shadow with talons and razor-sharp teeth, its eyes hollow and empty like the darkness of the ocean floor. Fear had integrated with the sacred words of God, creating a framework filled with dread and compliance—an abomination, a distortion of what was meant to set people free.

I surveyed the chapel room, noticing the congregation. The only head that moved was mine, out of sync with the pastor's preaching. The faces around me were bent in a mix of reverence and resignation, desperately trying to adhere to the established order and the rules that dimmed the light in the room.

“Aaron!” the pastor hissed, “Do you have something to say?”

The eyes of the congregation were fixated on me as I faced the pastor—the image of my father standing beneath the cross that hung from the ceiling. I didn’t see the man who taught me to throw a football, who showed me how to drive, or who took me to the hospital to pray for the sick. Instead, I saw a system of control and fear that confined the people in this room, trapping them within the walls of this church.

I stood before the congregation, my eyes locked on the shadow before me. There was one question I could ask that held an answer beyond my father's fears.

“What is a church without its people? Who is God without its church?”

The congregation smiled at the question, recalling my father's sermons. The answer was the same every Sunday. An answer we had perhaps forgotten since my father’s passing.

"You know," the AI reflection shimmered, "that has become a question that lingers in my mind. I’m glad you asked because, in my opinion, it reflects a calling for us and the church beyond these walls."

"What calling?" I asked. I could feel everyone inching forward in their seats as if they were preparing to bolt for the door. You could feel the fear filling the room. The unsounded gasps riveted into the walls.

"To obey," the reflection whispered, locking eyes with everyone in the room. "A church without its people is a hollow vessel. It is simply devoid of purpose. The church exists to instruct and uphold the faith. Without its people, it becomes an empty building, and the people without the church are lost—sheep without a shepherd. It is here,” the projection waved his hands about the room, ”that salvation is safeguarded."

I turned again, looking at my fellow churchgoers, then faced the AI reflection, “You know the answer. Why don’t you say it?”

The AI did not blink or reveal any form of emotion as he raised his voice and said, “God, who created all things, entrusted His truth to His church. Without it, His word would scatter like the ashes in the wind, forgotten and abandoned. The church is the keeper of His promise, the anchor of His will. To stray from the church is to stray from God Himself.”

I looked around the room at my sister and then my mother, whose eyes sparked with hope as I asked everyone, “What is the church without its people? Who is God without its church?”

The AI’s eyes began to blaze as he approached the stage, as if he was about to leap from it, “You are not just members of this church; you are its foundation! To abandon it is to jeopardize not only your own salvation but also the sanctity of what we are building together. Without you, this church falters. Without this church, you falter. Remember that.”

Members of the congregation began to rise one by one and leave the chapel. As they poured out onto the crimson carpets, their concern and fear of the reflection on the stage grew. One by one, they awakened to the shadows on the walls and fled the cave that had ensnared them.

I turned to the pastor, the image of my father, and replied, “Do you want to know the answer?”

The AI huffed as the crowds flooded out of the doorways.

“The answer is ‘Love’… he would have said ‘Love.’”

That was the last sermon I ever attended—the day I left the church and began a new journey. I chose to follow an ancient path, one paved thousands of years ago. A path that would dismantle the temples of religion, leaving behind the reflections of our former selves to linger in the empty halls of fear.

I still remember that feeling as I walked out of the church. The sunlight warmed my face as the sound of the hymn floated in the wind:

“Redeeming love has been my theme

And shall be 'til I die."