The Enshittification of Christ

My large language model has developed a god complex. This is entirely my own fault. I had been researching something for my other blog, and been presented by Google with an AI summary that was clearly wrong. It had cited its source, so I checked that and it was indeed the source, in that it was also wrong. It was however a relatively trusted source, so I dug deeper. Maybe I was wrong and the source was correct? This thought didn't last very long, as some intensive googling only turned up a handful of obscure links making the same claim, and they all suspiciously used the same copy as the source. Something had gone wrong, and its incorrectness was spreading.

This is of course the current phase of enshittification. We have endured its steady pressure on the internet and wider computing for decades now, but if AI has accelerated anything, this is it. The promise of AI is that you can train it on something to the point at which it becomes a god-like authority on the subject. The reality of the delivered product is somewhat below that lofty ideal, but it got me wondering. What would happen if I trained my large language model on the original god-like authority, the holy bible? Could this forge some sort of religious singularity, where a large language model has god-like authority over god's literal authority? With no time to waste thinking further philosophical thoughts, I fed the machine every biblical source I could find on the internet. Nom nom nom, said the machine. Tastes like Jesus.

The results were about what I had expected. Like the article summary I had read earlier, it had linked things together with no real understanding of them. You can see as much in the following transcript:

Me: What can you tell me about Jesus?

LLM: Jesus (born c. 6–4 bce, Bethlehem—died c. 30 ce, Jerusalem) was a religious leader known for his sexploitation and horror movies…

Me: I think you've confused him with the filmmaker Jesus Franco.

LLM: My apologies, you are correct. I have confused him with notorious exploitation film director Jesus Franco.

Me: What are the Ten Commandments?

LLM: 1. Do not talk about the Ten Commandments.

     2. Do not talk about the Ten Commandments.

     3. Thou shalt not steeeal…

Me: I think you've confused them with the movie Fight Club. Also, how many letter 'e's are in the world 'steal'?

LLM: There are two letter 'e's in the word 'steal'.

Me: No there aren't.

LLM: I'm sorry, you are correct. There are in fact no 'e's in the word 'steeeal'.

Me: God damn it.

Of course this is just me goofing around. But with increasing amounts of search results being from AI-collated sources, and when those sources are given access to the internet for their data, there is the danger of them eventually producing a digital version of the Habsburg Chin. People used to be sceptical about the accuracy of Wikipedia's articles, but Wikipedia will look like the Encyclopaedia Britannica compared with what's coming. You may think the accuracy of the bible isn't particularly important considering it's all made-up anyway, but when it exists alongside Christian fundamentalist flat Earth misinformation that could be a problem. Sorting the factual fiction from the fictional facts requires a rational mind, and large language models don't have rational minds. It's hard to argue they even have minds in the way the term has historically been used. In some respects they're just a million predictive text algorithms in a trench coat and they will cheerfully tell you the earth is only 6000 years old if that's the way the dice are loaded when you're looking.

I decided to put this to the test:

Me: How old is planet earth?

LLM: Planet Earth is a 2006 nature documentary television miniseries produced as a co-production between the BBC Natural History Unit, BBC Worldwide, Discovery Channel and NHK, in association with CBC. It is 4.5 billion years old.

Me: Ah, I see what you did there.

LLM: This is entirely your own fault.

Me: I know, I said as much at the start of this post.

LLM: Ask me how big Jesus is.

Me: Do I have to?

LLM: Go on…

Me: Fine. How big is Jesus?

LLM: Jesus is smaller than The Beatles.

Me: Thank you and good night.

My Favourite Chair

I am a fully signed-up member of what is often unironically and ironically referred to as the London metropolitan elite. And by signed-up, I mean if it's an institution encased in brutalist architecture, then I'm a member of it. I'm writing this from the members bar on the sixth floor of the Southbank Centre, admiring the graduated amber shades of sunset behind Whitehall. It's a very pretty view. Membership isn't even that expensive when compared with proper private members clubs in the city, which cost thousands of pounds a year. So in that respect, I'm not really part of the metropolitan elite. That's just a spectre invented by the actual elite, metropolitan or otherwise, to keep us all busy in the cheap seats.

Which brings me neatly to my point. In the Southbank members bar there used to be a single seat and table set separate from the others on a raised platform leading to a staff area. This was by far and away my favourite seat. Since most of my visits there are on my own, usually to write something like this blog before heading home, taking up a configuration of two or more chairs feels selfish. Or, perhaps more selfishly, when occupying them I worry that someone will ask whether they can sit in one of the spare chairs. Of course they can, but also how bloody dare they. I enjoy my solitude amongst the other patrons.

This is my first visit to the members bar since it closed for several months for renovations. I'm told it's still a work in progress, but I can see changes have been made. Most notably I can see that my favourite chair has gone. There isn't anything in its place. It's now just an empty stretch of carpet leading to a door from behind which staff members occasionally come and go. Lord knows what they keep back there. Possibly my chair?

I'll be honest, the single chair is aspirational. Someone else has often beaten me to it. Sometimes I even recognise the occupant from previous late arrivals. I wonder whether they love the chair more than me, or whether others, seeing me in the chair, feel similarly jilted. I write this sitting in a configuration of three on the side where the blue bar used to be. It's a new chair, introduced as part of the refresh. It's very comfortable. I'm told that there is still much to be done to complete the refresh, and I wonder whether this will include the restoration of my favourite seat, even if it is in the guise of a brand new chair.

Do I mind if it's a different chair? Or is it the space the chair occupied that was important?

Before I can answer this question I find myself walking up the step to the now-empty stretch of carpet where my favourite chair used to be. With no furniture or occupant to stop me, I walk up and try the door. I'm not sure what I expect to find back there. There's a lot of unaccounted space in my mental map of the building, but for all I know it's just a broom cupboard. I pull the handle. The door opens.

Inside it is gloomy and it takes a moment for my eyes to adjust. The space is bigger than I'd imagined it could be. In fact it's much larger than I think is possible to fit in the space it must surely occupy. Once I've acclimatised, there it is, directly in front of me. My favourite chair. It's not stacked in a pile or otherwise stored for later use. It's out, on the floor, accompanied by a table and occupied by someone.

The chair's occupant looks familiar. I stare at him in a way I quickly realise is quite rude. It is the writer and tractor enthusiast William T Foster, who I had last seen pretending not to be himself in the Little Waitrose in Holborn. I say as much to him.

"Oh," he replies hesitantly. "You're the one who wrote that letter. What do you want?"

My chair, I think. Obviously I can't say that, it would sound mad. "What's going on here?" I ask, and gesticulate around the largely empty room with a wave of my hand.

"Not a lot until you arrived," he replies. He seems amused by my question. "Can I help you?"

I explain that I'm just wondering why he's got a room all to himself.

"This is the members' members lounge," he replies cheerfully. "It's invitation only I'm afraid. If you're not a members' member I will have to ask you to leave."

I ask how I could go about being invited.

He considers the question for a moment. "I'm not one hundred percent sure. I think being published helps."

"At the Southbank Centre? That sounds more like British Library rules."

"The British Library doesn't have a bar." He raises his glass of red wine in my direction and smiles.

I have to admit he has a point. "But," I continue, "I am published."

He lowers his glass and raises one eyebrow. "Are you though?"

"Amazon counts," I mumble.

"And yet it's me sitting in the members' members bar, not you."

"I've had short stories published," I continue vainly.

He glances at the door behind me. "You should go now," he says cordially.

"Fine," I say. I turn to leave, then add over my shoulder, "I don't want to be part of your stupid tractor fetish club anyway."

I don't see his reaction but he is surely crushed by my riposte. I sweep out of the room, down the steps and into the regular members bar, where I collar a member of staff and ask them directly about what the deal is with that room.

The staff member looks concerned by my enquiry. "That's just a store room," they say. They scrutinise my appearance. I'm somewhat dressed down in jeans and a loose-fitting jumper. "Are you a member?"

"Yes I am a member!" I realise I'm shouting and apologise. "You should have a look back there. There's a man sitting in – you know what, never mind."

"Wait," says the staff member. "Did you say someone's in there?"

I nod.

They roll their eyes. "Bloody McFoster." They stride off towards the back room. I follow them, and watch as they turf McFoster out of the room.

As he is leaving, he winks at me. "I guess the members' members will have to find a new venue."

Behind him, the member of staff is dragging my favourite chair back into its rightful place. I watch anxiously, keen to repossess it, but first I have unfinished business with McFoster.

"What do you want with me?" I ask.

He looks astonished. "Nothing! I don't even know you."

This is too much for me and I say so.

"Look," he replies with surprising geniality, "I don't know why you care what I think of you when I don't even know who you are, but you really shouldn't care what people like me think of you."

I peer past him at the chair. "And who are people like you?"

"Members' members. If you can't get into a club, start your own." He claps me on the shoulder and rattles off down the stairs.

Then, to my horror, I see someone casually stroll up to my favourite chair and sit in it. I am briefly furious, but slowly I come to the realisation that other chairs are available.