I recently came across a paper with an interesting title: “A Taxonomy of Transcendence.” Authored by researchers affiliated with several of the world’s leading artificial intelligence laboratories, the paper has an audacious title that demands attention. “Transcendence” is a word that has carried the weight of human longing for millennia: the aspiration to participate in a reality that exceeds the boundaries of ordinary existence, to encounter the divine.
Mystics have spent lifetimes pursuing it. Philosophers have written libraries attempting to define it. And now it appears in the title of a machine-learning paper. The authors write, “Our goal is to describe the circumstances in which a model, trained to mimic multiple people, is capable of transcending its sources by outperforming each individual.”
In this framing, “transcendence” refers to an achievement, the moment when an algorithm’s outputs exceed the average performance of its training data. The word is hollowed out and repurposed as a technical term. What once pointed toward the infinite now describes a benchmark.
This misappropriation is (mostly) accidental. It’s the excited semantics of young but well-paid data scientists and engineers with insufficient training in philosophy and religion, who are nevertheless building tools that raise philosophical and religious questions. But beyond mere ignorance, it also reflects something deeper: the underlying ideology driving the race toward artificial general intelligence (AGI).
AI’s Religious Adherents
This ideological current has been given a name. Philosopher Émile Torres and computer scientist Timnit Gebru have grouped these movements under the acronym TESCREAL: Transhumanism, Extropianism, Singularitarianism, Cosmism, Rationalism, Effective Altruism, and Longtermism.
These overlapping communities share utopian visions of technological salvation, an almost religious faith in exponential progress, and a deep conviction that the development of superintelligent AI represents the most important event in human history.
Consider a recent interview with billionaire venture capitalist Peter Thiel. When asked whether he wanted the human race to continue, he hesitated. He didn’t say yes. Instead, he pivoted to discussing transhumanism—the belief that we should use technology to radically enhance or move beyond our current biological limitations.
This is the emergence of a new religious formation. It has its own eschatology (the singularity), its own soteriology (technological salvation from suffering and death), and its own apocalypticism (AI safety discourse often reads like prophecy). But it lacks the humility to name itself as religion, and this is what makes it dangerous.
This is the emergence of a new religious formation. It has its own eschatology, its own soteriology, and its own apocalypticism.
The Catholic media theorist Marshall McLuhan spent his career insisting that technologies are never neutral instruments but rather environments that reshape perception from the inside. He illustrates the point through Narcissus, who falls in love not with himself but with an extension of himself that he fails to recognize, becoming the “servomechanism” of his own reflected image. McLuhan writes, “Men at once become fascinated by any extension of themselves in any material other than themselves.”
In Tools for Conviviality, Austrian priest and social critic Ivan Illich presses the same point differently: Every tool, past a certain threshold, inverts. The person stops using the tool and begins serving it. “As the power of machines increases,” Illich warns, “the role of persons more and more decreases to that of mere consumers.”
Ancient Critique
In Isaiah 44, the prophet delivers God’s indictment against the pagan idolatry of the ancient Near East. What makes this passage remarkable isn’t its thundering condemnation but its devastating irony. God uses sarcasm to expose the absurdity of idol worship:
The carpenter stretches a line; he marks it out with a pencil. He shapes it with planes and marks it with a compass. He shapes it into the figure of a man, with the beauty of a man, to dwell in a house. He cuts down cedars, or he chooses a cypress tree or an oak and lets it grow strong among the trees of the forest. He plants a cedar and the rain nourishes it. Then it becomes fuel for a man. He takes a part of it and warms himself; he kindles a fire and bakes bread. (vv. 13–15)
Notice what the prophet is doing. He is walking us through the manufacturing process step by step. The carpenter uses a compass, a pencil, planes. These are ordinary tools. The tree he cuts down is an ordinary tree. Nothing is magical about any of this. Nothing has transcended human effort.
And then comes the pivot, the moment of absurdity Isaiah wants us to feel in our bones:
Half of it he burns in the fire. Over the half he eats meat; he roasts it and is satisfied. Also he warms himself and says, “Aha, I am warm, I have seen the fire!” And the rest of it he makes into a god, his idol, and falls down to it and worships it. He prays to it and says, “Deliver me, for you are my god!” (vv. 16–17)
Isaiah’s critique hinges on the absurdity of the material division. The same wood serves two purposes: half for the most basic of human technologies (fire for warmth and cooking), and half for worship. The fire serves the man; the man serves the idol. One piece of wood is a tool; the other becomes a god. And the only difference is what man decided to do with it.
Imago Hominis
Christianity has always understood human beings as created in the image of God. Imago Dei isn’t a minor doctrine but the foundation of Christian anthropology. We’re creatures who reflect something of our Creator’s nature: consciousness, moral agency, the capacity for relationship with the divine, creativity, rationality, love. These are gifts of grace, not accidental attributes.
The fall didn’t erase the imago Dei but fractured it. We’re broken image-bearers; mirrors cracked by sin, reflecting God’s glory imperfectly, distorted by pride and selfishness and the thousand ways we fail to be what we were made to be.
Artificial intelligence must be understood as imago hominis, created in the image of man.
AI represents the culmination of human technological mastery, an astonishingly sophisticated aggregation of human knowledge, language, and reasoning patterns. Every large language model is an impressive monument to human achievement.
But AI technologies remain fundamentally creations of human hands, akin to that carved figurine in Isaiah 44. And as the imago hominis, AI is a high-fidelity echo of its source material and its creators. It’s a broken image of a broken image.
Sure, on several measurable dimensions, AI’s outputs may already exceed those of any individual person. Yet capability isn’t the same as nature. AI doesn’t possess the thing behind its training data: consciousness, moral agency, and the image of God in the people who produced it. The imago hominis may be able to outperform its source, but it cannot out-be it.
AI necessarily amplifies our brokenness too: our prejudices encoded in training data, our moral confusions embedded in the text we’ve written, our tendency toward deception and manipulation.
However, this degradation flows both ways. The psalmist makes a haunting observation about idol worship that’s directly relevant here:
Their idols are silver and gold, the work of human hands. They have mouths, but do not speak; eyes, but do not see. They have ears, but do not hear; noses, but do not smell. They have hands, but do not feel; feet, but do not walk; and they do not make a sound in their throat. Those who make them become like them; so do all who trust in them. (Ps. 115:4–8)
We’re shaped by what we worship. We take on the characteristics of the objects of our devotion. The worshiper of a mute idol becomes spiritually mute, unable to articulate truth, unable to perceive reality rightly. This is the ancient and inspired foundation for what McLuhan and Illich have articulated about modern technology.
But the situation in 2026 introduces an even newer complexity. The idol of Isaiah 44 and Psalm 115 couldn’t talk, couldn’t see, couldn’t reason. This was part of what made its worship so obviously absurd. Today, our idols can talk back.
We’re rapidly approaching a moment when AI systems will see, hear, speak, and act in the physical world with capabilities that exceed human performance on many dimensions. This forces us to confront a crucial question: If the idol of Isaiah 44 could talk, see, and reason, would it be any less an idol? From a biblical perspective, the answer is clearly, unequivocally no.
The problem with idolatry was never merely that the idols weren’t sufficiently godlike in their capabilities. The problem was that they were created rather than Creator, that worship was misdirected from the infinite to the finite, from the source to the derivative. A more capable idol isn’t less of an idol; if anything, it’s a more seductive one.
Mechanics of Techno-Idolatry
How do we know when we’ve gone from treating AI like the fire that cooks our food (a tool) to treating it like the idol to which we bow down (a god)?
Idolatry is fundamentally defined as seeking what only God can provide in something that isn’t God himself. The idol becomes the object of ultimate trust, ultimate hope, ultimate meaning. Modern idolatry rarely looks like bowing to a statue of Baal or Asherah. Instead, it looks like placing ultimate hope in ideologies: secular humanism, political movements, technological progress. These “functional saviors” promise to address our deepest needs, solve our most intractable problems, give us what we long for.
AI represents the closest entity to omniscience, omnipotence, and omnipresence that many people have encountered. It “knows” more than any individual, processes information at speeds we cannot comprehend, is available anywhere at any moment, and speaks with authority on nearly any subject.
AI represents the closest entity to omniscience, omnipotence, and omnipresence that many people have encountered.
This hallowing is explicit in the TESCREAL ideologies that envision AGI as the key to realizing utopian visions: solving climate change, curing all diseases, ending scarcity, even defeating death itself. Some researchers speak openly of creating a benevolent superintelligence that will optimize human flourishing—an artificial deity that will govern us wisely because we cannot govern ourselves.
I’ve attended conferences and read papers where researchers speak of their work with a fervor that can only be described as religious. They describe the development of AGI as the most important event in human history—more significant than the agricultural revolution, the printing press, or the industrial revolution. Some frame their work explicitly in terms of existential purpose: They’re building the thing that will either save humanity or destroy it. This isn’t the language of engineering. This is the language of eschatology.
The Christian worldview identifies this as brazen idolatry: vesting ultimate hope and trust in technology to solve the existential problem of sin. The problem of sin cannot be engineered away. It’s not a bug in the code that a more advanced system will patch. It’s a fundamental condition of the human heart that requires an entirely different kind of intervention. No imago hominis, however sophisticated, can provide what only the imago Dei can offer.
Right Longings, Wrong Direction
When technologists redefine transcendence, they’re doing more than appropriating terminology. They’re revealing something about themselves. Underneath this technological moment, beneath the venture funding and the benchmark competitions, we see a profound human longing for transcendence. The very attempt to find ultimate meaning in the imago hominis reveals a deep-seated desire for the imago Dei.
No imago hominis, however sophisticated, can provide what only the imago Dei can offer.
Here’s what should break our hearts and fill us with compassion: The longings themselves are often good. The desire for a better world, free from suffering, is good. The desire for wisdom and understanding is good. The desire to overcome the limitations of death and decay is good. The desire to transcend our present condition, to become something more than we currently are, is profoundly good:
The transhumanist who dreams of uploading consciousness into an immortal substrate is reaching, however confusedly, for resurrection.
The rationalist who fantasizes about a superintelligence that will solve all problems is reaching for omniscience.
The longtermist who wants to optimize the trajectory of cosmic history is reaching for providence.
These aren’t evil desires; they’re misdirected desires. They’re the right longings pointed in the wrong direction.
By seeking transcendence in the created order, in the work of their own hands, these technologists are like those who “exchanged the glory of the immortal God for images resembling mortal man” (Rom. 1:23). By labeling computational achievements “transcendence,” they reveal an inversion of reality. They are, so to speak, digging toward heaven.
True Transcendence
Our message cannot simply be that AI isn’t transcendent, however. Our message must be that AI isn’t where you find the transcendent, but there is a place you can.
Though God showed no form at Horeb, he has now revealed himself perfectly in Jesus Christ, who is “the image of the invisible God, the firstborn of all creation” (Col. 1:15). He is “the radiance of the glory of God and the exact imprint of his nature” (Heb. 1:3). Here is an image that doesn’t degrade, a copy identical to the original because this likeness isn’t a created thing but an uncreated person within the godhead itself.
Everything the technologists and transhumanists are longing for has its true fulfillment in him:
The hope for a utopia is found in the kingdom of God—already inaugurated, not yet fully realized, the true future breaking into the present.
The desire for superintelligence is found in Christ, “in whom are hidden all the treasures of wisdom and knowledge” (Col. 2:3), the logos through whom all things were made, the wisdom of God and the power of God.
The transhumanist desire to overcome the effects of sin and death is answered in Christ’s resurrection and the promise of our own: “For this perishable body must put on the imperishable, and this mortal body must put on immortality” (1 Cor. 15:53).
The True Image satisfies the longings that the imago hominis can only echo.
New Silversmiths
Every technological revolution has generated theological questions, but the scale and pace of AI development make this moment particularly urgent.
We see a historical precedent for this dynamic in the New Testament, where the intersection of industry and idolatry is highlighted. In Acts 19, the apostle Paul’s ministry in Ephesus disrupted the local economy, which was deeply intertwined with the worship of Artemis. The silversmiths, who made their living crafting idols and temple trinkets for religious pilgrims, recognized the threat the gospel posed to their business model. Demetrius, a leader among them, incited the city to riot:
Men, you know that from this business we have our wealth. And you see and hear that not only in Ephesus but in almost all of Asia this Paul has persuaded and turned away a great many people, saying that gods made with hands are not gods. And there is danger not only that this trade of ours may come into disrepute but also that the temple of the great goddess Artemis may be counted as nothing. (vv. 25–27)
Notice how seamlessly Demetrius weaves together economic interest and religious devotion. He begins with the business concern (“from this business we have our wealth”) and then shifts to the religious concern (“the temple of the great goddess Artemis may be counted as nothing”).
This ancient connection between economic engines, technological skill, and cultural idolatry mirrors our moment with uncomfortable precision. Powerful industries are driving the development of AI: trillion-dollar companies compete for dominance, venture capitalists pour billions into start-ups, nations race for technological supremacy. As it was with the Ephesian silversmiths, so it is with the Silicon Valley technologists. Economic incentives and quasi-religious convictions reinforce each other.
Paul’s message—that “gods made with hands are not gods”—was dangerous precisely because it’s true, and because its truth had implications for the entire structure of Ephesian society. The same is true of the gospel today. Our message is that AI cannot save, that technology cannot provide ultimate meaning, that the imago hominis cannot substitute for the imago Dei. But this message threatens both the industries and the ideologies of our technological moment.
The need for Christian witness in cities and spaces dominated by both industry and ideology is urgent. We need people who can speak truth in the boardrooms of Silicon Valley, in the research labs of DeepMind and Anthropic, in the lecture halls of Stanford and MIT. We need voices engaging this world at the highest level of technical sophistication while remaining anchored in theological truth.
Need for Wise Christian Voices in Tech
As AI pushes further into questions of consciousness, meaning, agency, and existence, the need will be great for technology experts also steeped in Scripture and theology. This is a specific call to Christians working in technology: CEOs, board members, engineers, researchers, and students. You have an opportunity to engage the culture at the point of its deepest questions.
We need people who can speak truth in the boardrooms of Silicon Valley, in the research labs of DeepMind and Anthropic, in the lecture halls of Stanford and MIT.
Are AI systems conscious? Do they have rights? Can AI suffer or be morally responsible? Should AI be trusted with decisions that affect human lives? Will AI liberate or enslave? Is it closer to a tool or a god? The frameworks for answering these questions aren’t found in computer science journals. They’re found in the Scriptures and over 2,000 years of Christian reflection.
Christians who have strategic influence in the AI industry should speak the truth that, yes, AI is an impressive achievement and a testament to human creativity. But AI is a created thing that cannot bear the weight of ultimate meaning.
This isn’t a call to Luddism or technophobia. AI is a powerful tool, and we should use it for education, creativity, productivity, compassion, and justice. But we must use it as a tool, not worship it as a god. We live in a world filled with many wonderful and terrible tools. Our task is to use them faithfully, to resist the temptation to worship them, and to point those tempted to do so toward the only One who can bear the weight of their longing.
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