The Parable of the Old-Fashioned Priest

There was once a priest who had served at the altar for many years. Sunday after Sunday, he climbed into the pulpit with a well-worn Bible, his notes marked with scribbled thoughts, prayers, and the names of parishioners he had visited that week. His sermons were not perfect, but they were always rooted in the soil of his people’s lives.

Then came a new tool, swift and clever: a language machine that could compose sermons in seconds, fluent in Scripture, doctrine, and even poetic turns of phrase. Young clergy praised it for its efficiency. Congregants found the messages polished and well-structured. Some even asked the old priest, “Have you tried it? It might save you time.”

The priest understood. The world had grown faster. There were more tasks, fewer hours. He bore no resentment toward the machine.

But one Sunday, after hearing a sermon written by the machine, he walked alone into the sanctuary. The candles still flickered. The chalice still waited on the altar. And he whispered to no one in particular,

“The words were right, but the wine had no taste.”

Then he returned to his study. He opened the Bible and began again—not because he had no help, but because he had known the people, walked with them in sorrow and joy, and believed that preaching was not only about words, but also about presence.