Sacred Stories Deserve Sacred Hands: Why I Rejected an AI-Generated Book Cove

I wanted the cover to reflect the reverence of the story. Timeless Witness: Birth of Hope is rooted in ancient prophecy and biblical truth, written to draw readers closer to the sacred events that changed the world. I wasn't just hiring someone to make a graphic—I was inviting them into something holy. When the designer told me she'd be crafting the cover by hand, I believed her. And for a moment, I was genuinely excited.

But then I saw the result.

What should've been a tender nativity scene looked like a bad sci-fi parody. Baby Jesus had a face that looked… off—almost alien. Mary had six fingers. Stars floated inside a roofed building. And right beside the manager? A lantern that looked like it came from a camping catalog—maybe even electric. It was as if someone had dropped Bethlehem into a sci-fi video game and called it sacred art. I just stared at the cover, torn between disbelief and frustration. Part of me wanted to laugh—another part wanted to walk away. That's when it finally sank in: this wasn't handcrafted. It was machine-made. You could see it in the details—fingers that bent wrong, light sources that made no sense, and scenery that didn't follow any logic. It had all the hallmarks of AI. And I'd been sold on the promise of a custom design.

Artificial intelligence (AI) has been creeping into creative spaces for some time now. From MidJourney to DALL·E, from auto-generated influencers to AI-written books—it's everywhere. And the thing is, it can look good. Sometimes, it's excellent. But when you ask it to touch something sacred, something with meaning, something divine—that's when you see the cracks.

Because AI doesn't understand reverence.

It doesn't understand what's holy.

It doesn't understand God.

Sure, it can blend art styles and mimic brushstrokes. It can simulate candlelight or recreate the folds in a robe. But it doesn't know why that moment matters. It doesn't know the difference between a nativity scene and a marketing backdrop. It doesn't understand that placing a modern lantern in a first-century barn collapses not just the historical timeline—but the spiritual one, too.

That cover reminded me of something we're all facing: a world that's increasingly okay with imitation over incarnation. Where if it looks good on the surface, that's enough. But when you're telling a story that's rooted in truth—close enough isn't close at all.

And this isn't just about one bad book cover. It's everywhere.

AI influencers with flawless faces are gaining huge followers on Instagram. Some look almost human. Others still have that slightly off, too-perfect stare. But they're selling products, offering "life advice," and sharing thoughts about humanity—without ever having been human. They've never wept. Never prayed. Never experienced grace. However, they're somehow perceived as leaders.

It doesn't stop there. AI is writing songs, drafting sermons, and generating entire devotionals. It's fast. It's polished. And it's tempting. I understand the draw.

But faith-based work—real storytelling—demands more than efficiency. It demands integrity. It demands reverence.

When I walked away from that AI-generated cover, I started thinking: how often are we consuming content—books, sermons, art, even "testimonies"—without asking who created it or whether they understood what they were handling?

A real artist, especially one who shares your beliefs, brings more than just skill. They bring heart. They bring prayer. They bring reverence to the process. They don't just copy what a nativity should look like—they care why it matters that Christ entered the world the way He did. They don't just draw stars—they understand what it means to follow one. They don't just replicate the shape of a lamb—they know the love of the Shepherd.

The danger of AI isn't just in the glitches. It's in what it slowly erodes: meaning, conviction, and the sacredness of creation. You can train a program to draw a cross, but it will never feel the weight of it. You can prompt it to recreate the Last Supper, but it will never understand what was about to be lost—and what would be won.

And if we're not careful, we'll settle for that imitation. We'll start seeing something that looks good as something good.

I'm not anti-AI. I use it to brainstorm, to check grammar, and to help speed up technical processes. But I also know it can't replace calling. It can't carry the weight of a message that's been prayed over. It can't speak from conviction. It can't bleed.

I think we're reaching a turning point—a place where we need to decide whether convenience is worth the cost. AI "pastors" are being pitched for digital church services. AI-written devotionals are flooding Amazon. But machines don't have a testimony. They can't be transformed. They can't bear witness.

That's what this all comes back to: witness.

The book I'm preparing to release—Timeless Witness: Birth of Hope—isn't just a story. It's a declaration of something real. And if I want readers to trust what's inside, the cover can't be hollow. The message has to match the medium. And the medium has to be human.

So I slowed down. I went back to an artist who understood the story—who didn't just have talent but who respected the message. Someone who sketched, revised, and prayed. Someone who didn't just create something beautiful—they created something true.

The difference? Night and day. The new cover doesn't just look better; it also feels more substantial. It feels right. It carries the weight of the story. It honors the moment. It honors the Savior.

There's something sacred about real, honest, Spirit-led creativity. In a world of instant results and polished fakery, maybe what we need most isn't faster content—but faithful craftsmanship. Perhaps we need to return to art made with hands that have wrestled with the truth. Eyes that have cried. Hearts that have been humbled and redeemed.

I'm not saying we need to ditch technology. But we need to keep our discernment sharp. Just because AI can do something doesn't mean it should. And just because it's impressive doesn't mean it's inspired.

If you're a creator, don't hand your calling to a machine. Let AI assist, but don't let it lead. Keep your voice. Keep your faith. Keep your soul.

Because sacred stories deserve sacred hands.

Timeless Witness: Birth of Hope is more than a title. It's a mission. And I've learned—when the story matters, you don't settle for a copy.

You look for a witness.