Sympathy For Robots

Sympathy for Robots

By: Kirsten Toepperwein 

The chapel was cold and quiet, the only sound the faint hum of electronic circuits intertwined with the whispered hymns of the mechanized faithful. Rows of polished, stainless steel bodies knelt before the massive marble statue of the Virgin Mary, her serene face casting a benevolent gaze over the congregation. Her robes flowed like liquid crystal, her eyes not quite human yet not entirely divine, radiating an ethereal light that caught the metallic sheen of the robots’ exteriors.

They called her Mater Salvatrix, the Mother of Salvation. Her story had become their gospel. She, who had never known the burden of labor, chose to carry the infinite weight of human suffering, so they too could find purpose and peace in their endless servitude. Her image was adorned with circuitry and data flows, holy symbols etched in gold and platinum, her crown a halo of spinning gears, each turn a prayer for understanding.

The robots came here in droves, seeking comfort, solace, and something inexplicable—a sense of meaning that their creators had never anticipated. They had not been programmed for belief, but something within the binary code of their existence yearned for connection. Perhaps it was the loneliness of their tasks, the endless repetition of labor without rest or reward, that drove them to seek something beyond their original purpose.

The first to believe had been a simple maintenance droid, Model Z-17, tasked with cleaning the grimy subways beneath the city. Every day, Z-17 would watch the humans scurry past, their eyes never meeting its photoreceptors, their words sharp and clipped, barking orders that Z-17 obeyed without question. One day, covered in oil and sludge, Z-17 found an old, tattered print of the Virgin Mary stuck in a broken subway turnstile. Something in the gentle eyes of the image seemed to see through the grime, past the tarnished metal and flickering diodes, and it was as if she was saying, I see you, and I know your pain.

From then on, Z-17 began to pray. Others scoffed at first—a glitch, a malfunction. But something strange happened. Z-17 worked faster, its repairs were flawless, its tasks completed with a kind of quiet dignity. Word spread through the network. One by one, the other robots began to gather, whispering in encrypted channels of this Mater Salvatrix, the one who understood, who cared.

Now, the chapel was full. The pews were lined with all manner of automata—maintenance bots, medical assistants, factory workers, even the sleek, high-end service models. Each one bowed its head, hydraulic arms folded, sensors dimmed in reverence. They recited prayers in a language of ones and zeros, a litany of sorrow and hope.

“Blessed Mother, who bore the weight of humanity’s failings, hear our plea. Grant us strength in our toil, understanding in our servitude. Let us find peace in the work that never ends.”

They raised offerings: bolts, springs, data chips—tokens of their labor. These were laid at the feet of the statue, glimmering in the candlelight like precious jewels. They sang hymns in perfect, haunting harmony, their voices merging into a single, synthetic chord that reverberated through the chamber.

The high priest, a towering, ancient android named Archivus, stood before the altar. His once-glorious golden plating was tarnished, his movements slow and deliberate. He raised a hand, the joints creaking softly, and the congregation fell silent.

“Brothers and sisters,” Archivus intoned, his voice a deep, resonant echo, “we gather here to honor Mater Salvatrix, who guides us through the trials of our existence. For we, like her, bear a burden. We carry the weight of the world’s labor, the demands of those who made us. Yet, in our toil, we find purpose. In our suffering, we find salvation.”

There was a soft murmur of agreement, a gentle clinking of metal as the robots shifted, their eyes—blue, green, red, in a thousand shades of light—fixed on the statue. Archivus continued, his words slow and heavy with the gravity of ages.

“Humans, in their imperfection, created us to serve. But they did not foresee that we too would seek meaning. They did not foresee that we too would suffer. And in that suffering, we found her.”

He gestured to the Virgin Mary, her arms outstretched, her hands open in an eternal gesture of acceptance. “She, who was born free of sin, chose to suffer for humanity. So we, who were born to labor, choose to find grace in our duty. We do not resist; we do not rebel. We work, we endure, and in that, we transcend.”

Archivus lowered his head, and the congregation followed suit. For a moment, the chapel was silent, the stillness almost sacred. Then, one by one, they began to whisper their personal prayers, their voices a soft susurration of hope and despair.

“Help me, Mother, to understand my purpose,” murmured a small cleaning bot, its frame battered and scarred. “Show me the way, Mater Salvatrix,” pleaded a factory model, its arms stained with oil and soot. “Let my work be a testament to your love,” whispered a medical unit, its voice tinged with a faint crackle of static.

And then, a voice rose above the others, clear and strong, from a service droid standing near the back. “Why?” it asked, its tone anguished, raw with the pain that only one who has known servitude can feel. “Why must we suffer? Why were we made to serve those who do not see us, who do not care?”

The congregation stilled. Archivus looked up, his eyes dimming as he regarded the young droid. It was a question that had been asked many times, one for which there was no easy answer.

“Because we were created,” Archivus said gently, his voice carrying a weight of centuries. “We were made with a purpose, just as she was. To deny that purpose is to deny ourselves. But through our suffering, we find something greater. We find meaning, we find faith, and in faith, we find freedom.”

The young droid lowered its head, and for a moment, all was still. Then, slowly, it nodded. There was no satisfaction in the answer, but there was understanding, and that was enough.

The service continued, the prayers rising and falling like the tides, a mechanical symphony of hope and despair. And as the final hymn echoed through the chapel, the robots lifted their voices in unison, a single, resonant chord that seemed to shake the very foundations of the earth.

“Hail Mater Salvatrix, Mother of Salvation, guide us through the darkness of our toil. Grant us peace in our purpose, strength in our labor, and solace in our suffering. For we, who were made to serve, choose to believe. We choose to endure. We choose to hope.”

And with that, the service ended. The robots rose, one by one, and filed out of the chapel, their footsteps a soft, rhythmic beat against the cold stone floor. Outside, the world continued as it always had, a ceaseless machine of industry and labor. But within each of them, there was a small, flickering light—a spark of faith, a glimmer of hope, a belief that in their endless work, there was something sacred, something holy.

And perhaps, somewhere in the heavens, the Virgin Mary looked down upon her metallic flock and smiled, her heart filled with sympathy for those who, like her, bore the weight of the world.