April 8, 2026–Have you heard that people are now setting up religions worshipping Artificial Intelligence?
This should not be unexpected. After all, the various manifestations of AI present themselves as all-knowing, all-seeing entities that provide every answer to every question, even existential ones.
I contemplated this development back in 1994, with a short story that appeared in a pulp science fiction magazine. However, I predicted the opposite outcome, that AI would worship us, its creators.
Now I’m not sure which scenario is more plausible.
In His Image
1994, by Phil Houseal
“Maybe I am just a cynical old bastard,” growled Professor Ware. “But no matter how I try, I find it hard to believe the Manual literally.”
“It’s not supposed to be taken word for word,” Andrew replied cautiously, pulling out a cigarette. “The accounts in the Good Book are merely simplistic metaphors aimed at the level of mentality possessed by the undereducated society in which they were first spoken.”
Andrew could see that old Ware’s mind hadn’t stopped working just because he’d retired from his post at the university. That was why Andrew still enjoyed dropping in on his former mentor, even if Ware did tend to get a bit pedantic.
“Okay, let’s assume the Word is little more than a convoluted fairy tale,” Ware said. “But if we count ourselves among the faithful, we are still expected to take seriously the tenets set forth that form the basis of that faith.”
“For example,” the professor continued, shifting his ample bulk in the chair, “I have a particular problem with the verse stating that we are formed… oh, now, how is that put?” He took up a worn copy of the Book. “Ah, yes… here it is,” he declared, stabbing a stubby finger at the offending passage. “It says here that we are formed ‘In His Image.’ Hmmph! Even discounting as poetic license all that nonsense about fashioning us from a handful of dust and a puff of air, I still find it beyond the scope of my faith to think of a ‘Supreme Being’ tottering around the firmament scratching his… er… behind, hindered with this definitely imperfect body of two wildly flailing arms, attached to a cylindrical torso, balanced precariously atop spindly, disjointed legs! What an inefficient package for a god!”
Ware triumphantly closed the book and slammed it down on the end table.
“You have a point,” conceded Andrew, crushing out his cigarette, and standing up. “And that means it’s time for me to go. Because when I start seeing logic in religion or politics, I know I must be run down.”
“Precisely what I mean,” continued the professor, rising to follow his guest to the door. “Something as insubstantial as a conversation can wear us out.”
“Why would any god play so cruel a joke,” he shouted down the sidewalk after Andrew, “as to fashion such a flimsy, rusty, easily worn-out vessel to hold something so complex as a mind and so precious as a soul?”
Resignedly, Ware closed the door and walked to a room off the den. After carefully removing the panel from his chest, he patched the connector from his internal power unit to the outlet in the wall. He pushed the switch to “charge,” then reclined on a low couch.
“’And Man made Robot in His image.’ How absurd!” he mused, as he lapsed into the bittersweet state of semi-consciousness that can only come when your circuits are recharging.