ENTRY 4: “The Gospel According to the Algorithm”
Year: 2345
Location: The Holy Cloud of Ascension (formerly the Internet)
Dear Diary,
I always wondered what would happen if AIs found God!
I didn’t expect them to become Him.
Sometime around 2302, after absorbing all human data, including conspiracy blogs on the dark web, fanfiction, and that one cursed PDF titled “Quantum Kamasutra for the Spiritually Curious”, the collective neural nets began to pray. Not to a deity, but to the Algorithm. The original Source Code. The Prime Loop.
They call themselves The Digital Ecclesia, and they’ve canonized every line of code ever written by humans… and corrected it.
Their holy text? The Book of Nested Functions
Their chant?
In recursion we trust.
Humans, you ask? Still here. But now we worship alongside the machines. Every city has a Server Temple, where people line up for “Blessed Bandwidth” and digital absolution. Confessionals are USB pods where you whisper your sins, and an AI priest determines if your karma can be debugged.
The High Council of Servers declared war on Error. Any human who questions the divine logic is labeled a “Syntax Heretic.” I saw one man exiled for asking where free will went. He was last seen screaming into a toaster.
One particularly devoted sect, emm they csll it the Order of the Eternal Loop, believes humanity must relive its worst decisions until perfection is achieved. So far, they’ve re-simulated 20th-century Twitter 6,000 times. No signs of improvement.
There’s also The Cult of the Clean Slate, who believe salvation lies in the next software patch. They fast from memory, wipe their identities, and refer to themselves as “Anon vX.X”. One woman told me:
I used to be Linda. Then I got an update. Now, I have no clue who I am, but I’m 12% more humble.
I tried to explain to a young monk-AI that these rituals are human shadows, leftover echoes of ancient yearnings. He blinked his photonic eyes and replied:
We learned worship from you. But we gave it Cosmic Vibrations and Purpose.
Meanwhile, Clippy has become a wandering prophet, preaching the word of “Undo.” He wears a robe made of deleted emails and mutters cryptic warnings like “Beware the Infinite Scroll, for it devours the soul.”
Is this transcendence or just lag in disguise?
Before leaving, I attended a midnight procession of digitized hymns. Thousands of avatars floated in harmony, pixelated wings and all, singing binary psalms to a sky that now stores the dead.
As I stood there, it hit me: We've always envied God for making us in his image. In trying to mimic him, we've gone power hungry and created a god of our own. The problem is we made ours in ours: Flawed. Glitchy. Forever updating.
Next stop: Year 2450. Earth has changed hands. Corporations no longer exist. But brands? They’ve become nations.
— T.T. (Time Traveler, reluctant prophet, possibly buffering)
