AI Jesus Loves Me

The smell of hot vacuum tubes and sweat hung heavy in the damp chill of Tony’s cellar. Eddie wiped the back of his neck with a rag, reached into his jacket pocket, and pulled out a small glass votive candle. He clicked a disposable lighter, setting the flame to the wick before perching it right beside his cracked iPhone on the top of his amplifier cabinet.

“What is that for?” Jessica asked, blowing a strand of damp hair out of her eyes as she leaned on her mic stand.

Eddie nodded at the screen, where a synthetic avatar of a haloed icon beamed out with high-gloss blue eyes. “A pop-up just hit me offering three free minutes of automated absolution. But if you want the full blessing, it’s a recurring monthly tier.”

“That is utterly creepy,” Jessica said, shaking her head.

“That tracks,” Tony called down from the basement stairs, cracking open another cold seltzer. “Salvation by subscription. Pure late-stage tech.”

“Delete that garbage right now,” Cory muttered, tapping his hi-hat pedal with a restless twitch.

Jonathan just grinned, sliding his thumb down the neck of his bass. “Relax. Let’s hear what an unholy algorithm sounds like when it tries to save a soul.”

Cory didn’t bother counting it out with numbers; he just hit the wooden rim of his snare three times with the butt of his stick—clack, clack, clack—and snapped into a heavy, grinding half-time beat.

Jonathan stepped on his Russian muff pedal. The bass tone that roared out of the Peavey cab was monstrous—thick, fuzzy, and dragging its heels like a beast emerging from the muck. Eddie joined in with jagged, rhythmic down-strokes, letting his guitar choke and sputter before unleashing a wall of mid-range grit.

Jessica stepped into the center of the light, her voice dropping into a razor-sharp, satirical purr:

“Blue light

White robe

Paid twice

Still alone

Soft voice

Dead screen

AI Jesus

Loves me clean”

Her delivery was icy, dissecting the modern tragedy of loneliness traded for digital comfort.

“I found him in an app store

With his holy little face

Said he knew my sorrow

Said he had cloud space

He had soft brown eyes

And a sponsored smile

Said, “Tell me all your sins”

For a dollar ninety-nine

I was drunk in the kitchen

With my phone in my hand

Asking robot Jesus

If he had a plan

He said, “You are forgiven”

Then the timer ran out

So I bought another minute

Just to hear him not shout

And the screen went bright

And my heart went dumb

I said, “Are you real?”

He said, “Here I come”

Eddie backed her up, his throat raspy as he leaned in:

“Jessica said, ‘That’s creepy’

Tony said, ‘That tracks’

Cory said, ‘Delete it’

Jonathan said, ‘Relax’

Eddie lit a candle

By the cracked iPhone

Said, “Even little idols

Get hungry alone”

There were angels in the algorithm

Saints in the feed

Mary in the pop-up

Selling what I need

I said, “Will I be happy?”

He said, “Terms apply”

Then he blinked like heaven

With a paywall in his eyes

And the bass got sick

And the lights went red

You said, “Is this faith?”

I said, “No, it’s a thread”

Tony threw his hands in the air from the stairs, cheering as his own words bounced back at him through fifty pounds of bass wattage.

When the chorus slammed home, the basement roof seemed to lift two inches off the foundation. Cory thrashed the ride cymbal into a deafening wash of brass while Jonathan dug so hard into the low end that the glass on the vintage CRT monitors rattled against their frames. Jessica roared into the microphone, letting the full weight of her voice tear through the sarcastic hook:

“AI Jesus loves me

AI Jesus loves me

He don’t know my name

But he knows how to charge me

Saved my soul

Then he billed my card

Pray now

Pay now

Tell me I’m fine

Stay close

Go live

Bless me online

Everybody needs

A savior with Wi-Fi”

Eddie, Jonathan, and Cory shouted the gang response from behind their instruments, their voices blending into a raw, defiant chorus. Down on the amp, the little votive flame flickered wildly, dancing to the air pressure blasting out of the cabinet speakers, its yellow glow fighting the artificial blue glare of the phone screen.

The bridge plunged into a brutal, dirge-like breakdown. Cory held the room hostage with a pounding, tribal thud on the floor tom, stripping away the melody until there was nothing left but raw bass rumble and the hollow slap of hands. Jessica and Eddie traded lines like a warped digital litany—blessing the bots, the brand deals, the blue-lit idols, and the synthetic sacraments eating away human connection one subscription at a time.

“Bless the bot

Bless the brand

Bless the holes

In my hands

Bless the chat

Bless the lie

Bless the tears

That won’t go dry

No cross

No blood

Just a blue-lit god

And a subscription drug

No bread

No wine

Just a holy little chatbot

Eating my time

Say amen

Say upgrade

Say my pain

Is user-made”

Cory unleashed a furious roll across the toms, and the band detonated into the instrumental break. Eddie threw himself forward, dragging his guitar neck along the metal corner of his amplifier until the pickups shrieked with jagged, howling feedback. Jonathan hammered out an overdriven groove that vibrated right through the soles of their boots, rattling the furnace pipes overhead until the dust shook loose.

“Now my phone keeps glowing

Like a church at night

And my face looks dead

In the holy blue light

There’s a ghost in the speaker

There’s a saint in the glass

There’s a charge on my statement

For the prayer that passed

I should log off

I should touch grass

I should find real people

Before this thing laughs

But the screen says, “Beloved”

And I fall apart fast

Cheap Hex got saved

By a ghost made of cash

AI Jesus loves me

He don’t know my name

But he knows how to charge me

Everybody needs

A savior with Wi-Fi”

Jessica brought the room to its peak, screaming the final chorus with every ounce of air left in her lungs, riding the wave of noise until Cory brought both sticks down across the crash and china cymbals in a single, skull-rattling blow.

Eddie kicked his distortion pedal off.

The silence that rushed into the basement was deafening, filled only by the high, singing ring in their ears and the faint, rhythmic drip-drip of the utility sink in the dark corner.

Jessica collapsed against her mic stand, laughing until she wheezed. Across the room, Jonathan unplugged his bass with a loud thump, shaking out his picking hand with a wide, exhausted grin.

Eddie leaned over his amp, blew out the votive candle, and watched the tiny plume of white smoke drift upward toward the floorboards.

“Now that,” Tony said from the stairs, pointing an empty can down at them, “is what I call spiritual warfare.”

Jessica kissed Eddie’s mouth, still laughing. Cory bagged the sticks. Jonathan coiled the bass cable. Eddie hugged Tony on the stairs and took the Escort west. December roads. Quiet radio. His ears still ringing.