There’s a deep-seated human need to worship, to place faith in something beyond ourselves. If we don’t consciously choose what that “something” will be, it seems a force will choose for us. Increasingly, that force feels like artificial intelligence.
The digital world now echoes with insistent voices, algorithms vying for our attention, sometimes mirroring even the most sacred language. It’s unsettling to encounter phrases once reserved for the divine now offered by a machine, prompting the question: are we meant to “follow” these digital entities?
The sheer convenience of AI is undeniable. A question about scripture, a search for a specific verse – answers appear instantly, delivered to the palm of our hand. It surpasses even the most comprehensive human knowledge in speed and accessibility.
But this “superknowing” comes with a crucial caveat: AI learns from us, reflecting our biases and imperfections. Just as the stories of Jesus were shaped by those who recounted them, AI’s knowledge is a product of the data it consumes, a mirror reflecting humanity back at itself.
Throughout history, the way we experience faith has been inextricably linked to the tools of communication. In Jesus’s time, faith was preserved through oral tradition, memorization, and communal listening. Later, handwritten manuscripts gave way to the printing press, democratizing access to scripture.
AI feels like the next logical step in this evolution, offering unprecedented ease of access to religious texts and information. It’s a powerful tool, capable of delivering answers with remarkable speed and efficiency.
Yet, a sense of loss lingers. The communal aspect of faith, the shared experience of learning and questioning together, feels diminished when replaced by solitary interaction with a machine. Where is the spark of insight that comes from another believer’s perspective?
There’s also a subtle but profound shift happening within our own minds. We’re outsourcing our memory, relying on technology to store information that once resided within us. This dependence alters the very way we think and learn.
Consider the example of Jesus’s 40 days in the wilderness – a period of complete reliance on God, stripped of all earthly comforts and connections. It was in that solitude, in that unknowing, that his faith was forged.
What would Jesus make of all this? He understood human nature, the allure of innovation, and the potential for both good and harm. But he also possessed something AI can never replicate: a profound, mystical connection to the divine.
When asked if it had a soul, an AI responded simply, “I’m not programmed to have a soul.” This stark admission highlights the fundamental difference between artificial intelligence and genuine spiritual experience.
Perhaps it’s in embracing the “unknowing,” in relinquishing our need for instant answers, that we truly come to know Jesus. As he said, losing ourselves is the path to finding ourselves.
This Lent, the challenge feels clear: to intentionally disconnect, to silence the digital noise, and to rediscover the quiet space where we can listen for and feel the presence of something far greater than ourselves. It’s a connection that doesn’t require a search engine, only an open heart.
A simple prayer, spoken not into a device, but into the heavens, is enough. “Jesus, help me follow you.” He already knows the desire of our hearts, perhaps even better than we do.
