The central concerns about AI in music focus on whether it undermines human spiritual agency, bypasses the formative labor traditionally associated with worship, or confuses output with obedience. These are serious objections. I share some of them.
This project does not defend AI. It does not condemn it. It tests whether our strongest reactions reveal theological convictions or unexamined attachments of identity, pride, and authorship.
60,000+
Daily AI Uploads
According to Deezer, a significant number of new daily uploads are AI generated. The flood is already here.
75 Million+
Current Ai Tracks
A substantial portion of the music people listen to is already AI assisted. Most listeners do not know it.
These figures are not arguments for or against AI in worship. They simply describe the ground on which the argument now takes place.
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Paul Whitehorn
God has always worked through unlikely instruments. He spoke through a burning bush to a man who stammered. He delivered a message through a donkey when a prophet refused to listen. He chose fishermen to build His Church and a murderer to write much of the New Testament. Scripture does not present God as selective about the dignity of His instruments.
This is not a comparison between artificial intelligence and prophets or apostles. It is an observation. God has never seemed especially concerned with the prestige of the means He uses. What matters is whether the instrument points toward Him or away from Him. A golden calf is idolatry. A bronze serpent lifted on a pole brings healing. The difference lies not in the material, but in the orientation.
The danger has never been the tool itself, but the moment when the tool becomes inseparable from the self.
I do not claim these songs in their current form. I am largely a passive bystander to the technology that shaped them, and the music itself is not the point of this project. Some of the underlying material originated years ago in ordinary human settings: crude recordings sung into a microphone with a guitar, fragments written during my time as an infantry soldier, later sung in prison chapels, or quietly hummed by my wife while coffee brewed. In January 2026 that material was gathered and shaped into three albums over three days using digital tools at home, followed by a fourth album one week later, with more currently in progress. There was no studio, no label, no pursuit of audience, and no collaborators outside my family. I am a chaplain, not a career musician, and I have no particular investment in the quality, originality, or success of the music itself. These albums function as data points in my doctoral research, testing questions of authorship, agency, access, and the way modern tools collapse the distance between draft and declaration. Whether the music is good, forgettable, or effective is largely beside the point. What matters is what its existence reveals.
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