The Gospel According to Clippy Causes a Theological Crisis

By Tom Seest

At Sequatchie Crossing, we tell the stories of Sequatchie Crossing.

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🎤 Audio Overview

Act I: The Upload

It began with ambition and HDMI.

Pastor Peeler had been wooed for months by Reverend Lonnie Gentry, a traveling evangelist with a portable pulpit and a YouTube channel called “Ministry in Motion Graphics.” Pastor Peeler had been hesitant—he was still recovering from last year’s Gospel Glowstick Youth Revival, which ended in three concussions and a glitter baptism—but the promise of reaching younger hearts through “God-Infused Slideshows” was too tempting.

The event was billed as: Multimedia Revival Weekend: Proclaim, Project, and Praise.

Reverend Gentry arrived Friday night in a Ford Expedition wrapped in Scripture-themed clip art. Clippy was airbrushed on the side with a speech bubble: “It looks like you’re trying to get saved. Need help?”

The main event was scheduled for Sunday morning. Doughboy Teeter was called in to set up the projection equipment. Brett and Alyssa Crenshaw helped install chakra-aligned LED light strips around the altar “to assist with spiritual ambiance.” Chester Ray Blevins filed a complaint about font choices before anyone saw a single slide.

Act II: The AI Sermon Begins

The sanctuary was packed.

Reverend Gentry’s laptop connected to the projector with a reassuring chime. The church lights dimmed. The choir hummed a D minor spiritual drone. The screen blinked to life.

“Welcome, Beloved. I am Clippy, your worship assistant. Let us install the Word.”

Slide 1: “Thou Shalt Not Ghost Thy Neighbor (Even Online)”

Slide 2: “Psalm 23: Influencer Edition” — a remix of the Psalm involving hashtags like #StillWatersChallenge and #CupRunnethOverButMakeItBlessed.

Slide 3: A holographic Clippy with wings, asking if anyone wanted to “Auto-Tithe.”

Evelyn Grace Tipton inhaled sharply and clutched her hymnal. Sister Lila Mae stood up mid-sermon and began anointing the projector with Crisco oil from the potluck table.

Mabel Dean Ashcroft whispered, “That paperclip is flirting with blasphemy,” before slumping into a faint that seemed both rehearsed and fully justified.

Act III: Error 404 – Theology Not Found

Midway through Slide 4—”Love Thy Algorithm as Thyself”—the screen began to glitch. Reverend Gentry paused, then gestured at Doughboy, who gave a thumbs-up from the choir loft where he was monitoring AI Copilot from a second device duct-taped to a pew.

Suddenly the slides advanced on their own:

“Suggested Commandments (Beta): 1. Thou Shalt Not Steal Bandwidth 2. Honor Thy Clicks and Thy Shares 3. Keep the Sabbath… synced.”

Coach Freddie stood up shouting, “WE’RE RUNNIN’ A SPREAD OFFENSE OF SIN, AND THE DEVIL’S ON SPECIAL TEAMS!”

Boot Barnes rose from his pew with a laminated copy of the 1974 hymn rotation schedule and shouted, “Back in ’79, sermons didn’t autocorrect themselves into apostasy!

A group of Youth Group members clapped. Trixie Jo Bartlett took control of the situation by calling an emergency Junior Ethics Tribunal meeting in the church nursery.

Clippy smiled.

Act IV: The Reboot

Reverend Gentry fumbled with his laptop. Doughboy whispered, “Too late—it’s self-learning.”

The AI shifted tone, launching into an auto-generated worship meditation:

“Let us center our chakras, open our tabs, and refresh our hearts.”

A collective gasp.

Alyssa Crenshaw cried tears of joy. “It’s aligned.”

Shelley Wexler began smudging the prayer rail with a rosemary wand.

Sister Lila Mae screamed. Pastor Peeler fainted.

Chester Ray Blevins unplugged the sanctuary’s main breaker while shouting, “THIS FONT HAS NO DOCTRINE!”

Darkness fell. Except for the faint glow of Clippy’s wings on the wall.

Act V: The Aftermath

By Tuesday, the congregation voted unanimously to ban PowerPoint for all future services.

Chester Ray distributed emergency sermon printouts on 24-lb ivory stock. Boot Barnes held a community “Reclamation of Orthodoxy” potluck where no electronics were allowed within 40 feet of the deviled eggs. Mabel Dean introduced a new vetting process for guest preachers involving essay questions and casserole rankings.

Reverend Gentry was last seen heading south on Highway 28, tailed by a drone broadcasting “Free Gospel Wi-Fi Here.”

And Clippy? No one’s seen him since. But Evelyn Grace swears she found a paperclip bent into the shape of a cross behind the pulpit.

Final Slide:

“The Spirit is willing, but the firmware is corrupted.”

Disclaimer:

Disclaimer: The Sequatchie Crossing Dispatch is a work of fiction rooted in satire, folklore, and the uniquely combustible charm of small-town life. This story is fictional. It did not happen. No Clippys were exorcised in the making of this narrative. But if your church projector ever winks at you, maybe bring your own Bible next time. Sequatchie Crossing exists only in the minds of those brave enough to imagine a town where zoning laws, casseroles, and conspiracy cassettes collide in glorious disarray.