Pope Leo XIV draws a parallel between today’s AI revolution and the Industrial Revolution, noting both its potential and its perils. He’s concerned about threats to human dignity, justice, labour, and the ethical fabric of society—echoing the social Catholic tradition initiated by his namesake, Leo XIII (reddit.comapnews.com). Like Pope Francis before him, he insists that human agency, moral discernment, and relational depth-hallmarks of human communication—must remain central in an AI-driven age (vox.com).

Some bishops acknowledge AI’s utility in providing quick access to Scripture, Church teaching, or linguistic insights. For instance, Bishop John Arnold praises AI’s capacity to store and retrieve Church documents, emphasising AI as a tool that supports but does not replace human judgment or spiritual discernment (cbcew.org.uk). The worry, he warns, is letting algorithms dictate truth or tone, rather than letting the Holy Spirit guide ministerial communication. Yes—for exegetical background, historical context, sermon planning, language translation, and illustrative storytelling, AI can be a powerful helper. It can summarise passages, suggest themes, even draft coherent outlines. But it’s essential to emphasise: These are inputs, not the Heart of Homiletics.

Preaching is a living encounter, a communion in the moment between speaker, Jesus the Word, and the assembled faithful, under the guidance of the Holy Spirit. AI cannot participate in this communion. It is clear also that there is a relationship between the moral agency and the inner transformation of the preacher. He must be someone wounded and renewed by the Word, who labours in prayer, penitence, and conversion. On the other hand, AI has no interior life! While preaching, the Preacher undergoes a real-time discernment and adaptation. He senses the room—the listeners’ emotional and spiritual state—and can adjust tone, timing, or content spontaneously. On the other hand, AI lacks this lived sensitivity. Preaching and ministering needs a heart-to-heart conviction. The Scriptures say of Peter’s Pentecost sermon, “they were cut to the heart” (Acts 2:37). This piercing power is spiritual, not intellectual—and requires human witness, not synthetic generation.

It is true on the other hand that AI can assist by offering background, references, or structure; but it cannot minister. It cannot pray, be converted, cry out in the Spirit, intercede, move God’s heart, offer its life for the salvation of others. These are the uniquely human dimensions of preaching, catechesis, spiritual direction, and pastoral care. AI can be a valuable resource, a support, and even a catalyst for deeper homiletic preparation. But it cannot preach. It cannot exist in sacred encounter, cannot be a living conduit of the Living Word, and cannot penetrate hearts. It lacks spirit, formation, moral agency, and sacramental presence. The preacher—a person prayerfully formed, spiritually alive, and sacrificially open to Christ—remains the indispensable agent of the homily. AI may sharpen the blade, but cannot carry the heart-wounding power of the Word.

When St. Paul exhorts Timothy to be “a workman who has no need to be ashamed, rightly handling the word of truth” (2 Timothy 2:15), he uses a singular expression: orthotomounta ton logon tēs alētheias. The verb orthotomeō—used nowhere else in the New Testament—evokes the image of “cutting straight” or “cutting rightly.” While its original usage may point to the skill of a craftsman or road-builder, its theological meaning here is unmistakable: the Word of God must be divided, interpreted, and transmitted in a way that preserves its truth. This “cutting” must be orthodox—free from distortion, dilution, or self-interest. It is a sacred act.

In the liturgy, the Word of God is given to us freshly every day, proclaimed anew in the readings. The homily that follows is not a commentary on general theological truths, but a response to today’s Word—this particular moment of God’s address to His people. The preacher’s task is to make the Word edible, to break it into pieces that can be received and digested by those who hunger for truth. This task demands more than clarity or eloquence; it demands orthodoxy—a faithfulness that ensures the substance of the Word remains unchanged.

To eat, one must cut the bread into pieces. So it is with the Word. The preacher must “cut” it—not by dividing its meaning, but by offering it in explanatory portions that can be assimilated. This act of explanation, this homiletic breaking, must preserve the salt of the Word (cf. Mark 9:50), its power and truth. The Word of God cannot be fragmented in its essence. It can only be transmitted in a form that nourishes without losing its origin. This is the challenge and the glory of the homily: to break the Bread of the Word without distorting it.

In the Eucharist, the breaking of the Host does not divide Christ. Each fragment is still the whole Christ – Body, Blood, Soul, and Divinity. So too, in preaching: each portion of the Word explained must still carry the fullness of divine truth. The preacher must ensure that no part of his explanation alters the nature of the Word. He must cut rightly—orthotomounta—and break faithfully, maintaining the orthodoxy that preserves the mystery.

But unlike the Eucharist, where Christ is fully present regardless of the priest’s holiness, the homily does not transmit the Word infallibly. The efficacy of preaching depends in part on the purity of intention and transformation of the preacher himself. The teacher or catechist does not merely relay content; he serves as a conduit for the Living Word, and his fidelity determines how freely that Word can pass through him.

In attempting to make the Word understandable, there is a danger: the meaning can be changed, softened, or manipulated. The preacher may be tempted to remove the salt, the sting, or the cutting edge of the Word. But the Word of God is not meant to entertain minds—it is meant to touch hearts. As we read in Acts 2:37, after Peter’s words: “They were cut to the heart” (katenygēsan tēn kardian). The result of Spirit- filled, orthodox preaching is not merely intellectual admiration, but conversion. The Word, rightly cut and faithfully proclaimed, pierces the heart. The Greek verb used—katanussō—conveys a violent, piercing wound, one that leads not to harm but to repentance and new life. Such preaching transcends aesthetics.

This sacred cutting, then, is not merely an exegetical exercise—it is a spiritual act, and it requires the transformation of the preacher himself. One cannot transmit the Word faithfully unless one is being conformed to the Word. St. Gregory the Great observed: “No one presumes to teach unless he has first lived what he teaches.” (Regula Pastoralis, I.2) A preacher who has not been cut by the Word cannot cut it rightly for others.

It is God who gives virtue—dynamis, the spiritual power—to the preacher’s words. But He does so in proportion to the preacher’s purity, humility, and union with Christ. The preacher is not the source of grace, but he is its instrument. And the quality of that instrument matters deeply. A bent or tarnished conduit may obstruct or deflect the grace meant for the listener.

Whether we speak of preaching, catechesis, or theological teaching, the function is the same: the faithful transmission of the Word of God. It is always a matter of cutting and breaking in a certain way—a way that preserves the living continuity of the Logos, that maintains the orthodoxy of Christ, and that ensures the Word remains efficacious in touching hearts.

In this sense, we may say that orthotomounta and breaking the bread of the Word are not merely analogous—they are functionally identical. Both describe the same sacred task: making God’s Word accessible without losing its divinity, digestible without becoming profane. 

In the end, preaching is not an art form or an academic discipline. It is a liturgical and spiritual act—a moment of sacred cutting. And this is the heart of homily: only the Living Word can cut to the heart. The preacher’s role is to ensure that nothing in him dulls the blade.

In the heart of every true Christian preaching, there is a living interaction: between the preacher, Jesus the Living Word, and the people present, all within the mysterious working of the Holy Spirit. This interaction is not mechanical or merely intellectual; it is relational, spiritual, incarnational, and unique. It cannot be fabricated, programmed, or replicated — least of all by artificial intelligence.

The preacher does not simply speak about Christ. At his best, he speaks from Christ and in Christ. He has listened to the Word, been wounded and healed by it, and allowed it to transform his own being. His preaching becomes an extension of his communion with the Word. St. Paul expresses this clearly: “It is no longer I who live, but Christ who lives in me” (Gal 2:20). The moment of preaching is, then, a sacramental-like moment: a living contact point where Christ speaks again, not merely in the text, but through the preacher’s person, voice, tone, and tears — through his faith, his trials, his own transformation. This is not mere communication; it is communion.

In orthotomounta (rightly handling the Word of Truth, 2 Tim 2:15), the preacher is not merely breaking down the Scriptures into smaller pieces — he is offering his very self as a conduit. But this conduit must be alive: full of prayer, humility, obedience, and inner communion with Christ. The preacher must continually ask: Am I allowing Jesus to speak through me, or am I offering my own words?

AI, no matter how advanced, lacks this living, spiritual dimension. It cannot: receive grace, perceive the Word in faith, be cut or converted by it, respond to the unpredictable action of the Spirit and discern the needs of souls in the room in that specific moment.

Jesus said: “Do not worry about how you are to speak or what you are to say… for it will be given to you in that hour what you are to say” (Matt 10:19). That hour — kairos — is the sacred moment in which the Spirit inspires what must be said, and how. This moment depends on a preacher who is attuned to the Spirit and sensitive to the souls before him. No algorithm can live this. AI can analyse trends, predict patterns, generate coherent texts — but it cannot listen to the Holy Spirit, nor can it feel the hunger in the hearts of the people in real time.

The preacher, in the moment of preaching, enters into a real-time relationship with his listeners. This is not a one-way transmission, but a mutual spiritual encounter. He senses, as in prayer, what to insist upon, when to pause, what to add, or what to skip — sometimes contrary to his own plan — because he is in communion with both God and the people. As St. John Henry Newman noted in his Lectures on Preaching, “Preaching is not simply delivering a message, it is the communication of a life.” The chemistry that occurs in a room — even in silence, even in resistance — is part of the sacred economy. AI cannot perceive this chemistry. It cannot feel when someone’s heart is breaking, or when the Spirit is convicting, or when deeper silence is needed.

True preaching involves not only the communication of truths, but the gift of the preacher’s self. The preacher pours out his soul in love. As Paul wrote: “We were ready to share with you not only the gospel of God but also our very selves, because you had become dear to us.” (1 Thess 2:8) AI has no self to offer, no heart to break, no soul to bleed, no love to give. It can only simulate patterns of language and tone. But the Gospel is not a message among others — it is a Person. And only a person who lives in communion with the Living Word can speak that Word in a life-giving way.

In an age increasingly fascinated by technological replication, we must remember that preaching is not content delivery. It is an encounter, a transmission of divine life, and a sacred action. Artificial intelligence can help with information, preparation, and clarification. But it cannot preach — because it cannot be transformed. AI has skill, but only the priest, wounded and remade by the Word, only the work of grace, can become a living voice of the Word.

At the core of preaching and teaching lies a personal, transformative encounter with Jesus through Lectio Divina—a sacred form of prayer rooted in Scripture and enlivened by the Holy Spirit. As Pope Benedict XVI writes in Verbum Domini: “The process of lectio divina is not concluded until it arrives at actio, which moves the believer to make his or her life a gift for others in charity” (vatican.va). This prayerful reading is not merely intellectual; it is supernatural—a moment in which God speaks, the believer listens, and transformation occurs. Without it, preaching becomes mere rhetoric, vulnerable to dilution and disconnection from the Life it intends to convey.

Teaching the Word faithfully (orthotomounta, 2 Tim 2:15) requires that the preacher be first shaped by the Word. Pope Francis emphasises this in Evangelii Gaudium: “Whoever wants to preach must be the first to let the word of God move him deeply and become incarnate in his daily life.” (catholicculture.orglastampa.it) The preacher’s internal Lectio ensures that the “cutting” of the Word—making it digestible, relatable, and pastoral—remains pure and life-giving, not diluted or self-serving.

Just as the Eucharist is broken yet remains fully Christ, the homily is a sacred fraction of the Word. Each portion explained must retain its full divinity and power. This is only possible when rooted in Lectio, which invites the Spirit to illuminate, convict, and reshape the preacher’s heart.

Pope Benedict reminds us that the Word is “living and active, sharper than any two-edged sword” (Heb 4:12), and that contemplatio—the heart of Lectio—gives us the “mind of Christ” (vatican.va). Pope Francis reinforces this, stating that Lectio: “consists of reading God’s Word in a moment of prayer and allowing it to enlighten and renew us. This prayerful reading … should begin with study, and then go on to discern how that same message speaks to [the preacher’s] own life” (communio.stblogs.orgvatican.va).

Such interior transformation enables the Word, when preached, to pierce hearts, not just inform minds.

First, AI lacks spiritual reception. It cannot pray, be touched, or transformed. Lectio is not data-analysis; it requires prayerful openness to the Spirit. It cannot incarnate the Word. The preacher is not a dispenser of information, but a living conduit reshaped by the Word. AI has no soul to offer. AI cannot adapt in Spirit-led presence. Real-time preaching involves sensing the Spirit’s presence and the congregation’s hearts—a capacity far beyond any algorithm. AI cannot be pierced or gifted: Acts 2:37 describes conviction as being “cut to the heart.” Only crucified-conformed preachers, shaped by daily supernatural Lectio, can mediate such encounters.

True preaching begins in daily, supernatural Lectio Divina where, by the intervention of the Holy Spirit, we listen to the Word of God and put it into practice. Through this, the Word becomes life within the preacher, who in turn breaks it faithfully, preserving its divinity, power, and truth. AI may assist in research or drafting, but cannot preach, cannot be transformed, and cannot touch hearts in the way the Spirit-Filled, Word-rooted preacher can.


Verbum Domini (Benedict XVI), §46, 72, 82, 86, highlighting the stages of Lectio and its transformative call (communio.stblogs.org).

Evangelii Gaudium (Francis), §152: Call to prayerful preparation and personal transformation through Lectio (vatican.va)

Acts 2:37: Conviction is “cutting to the heart”—the mark of Spirit-led preaching.