Human beings have always been toolmakers. From the first flint stone fashioned into a blade to the complex algorithms powering today’s artificial intelligence, our tools have shaped the world around us and the way we understand ourselves. This deep relationship between humans and technology is more than functional—it’s anthropogenetic, meaning it actively forms and transforms who we are.
Yet, as the Vatican’s recent document Antiqua et Nova warns, there is a growing spiritual and psychological risk in how we relate to our most advanced creations. The allure of AI, with its promises of efficiency, autonomy, and even superintelligence, echoes an ancient temptation: the tendency to place ultimate trust in the works of our own hands. This isn’t new. It’s the same impulse behind the biblical critique of idolatry—substituting what is finite and human-made for what is infinite and transcendent.
Same old temptations, new forms
In the Hebrew Bible, idolatry isn’t necessarily about statues of gold and stone. It’s about misplaced trust—believing that something we’ve crafted can offer security, meaning, or control over the unpredictable forces of life. Psalm 115 describes idols as having mouths but not speaking, eyes but not seeing, ears but not hearing. Today, AI systems can “speak,” “see,” and “listen”—or at least create convincing simulations of these capacities. But like the idols of old, these technologies bring back only what we’ve programmed into them, however sophisticated that reflection may be.
The Vatican document points to this danger explicitly:
“The presumption of substituting God for an artifact of human making is idolatry, a practice Scripture explicitly warns against… However, it is not AI that is ultimately deified and worshipped, but humanity itself—which, in this way, becomes enslaved to its own work.”
This is the heart of the issue. The idolatry of AI is not about worshiping machines but about exalting ourselves through them—believing that our creations can transcend the limitations that define us as human.
Throughout history, periods of rapid technological change have often been accompanied by waves of blind optimism. During the Industrial Revolution, there was widespread belief that machines would usher in an era of endless progress, prosperity, and even moral improvement. Instead, we witnessed new forms of exploitation, environmental degradation, and a mechanization of human life that often alienated people from their own labor.
Today’s discourse around AI carries similar undertones. There’s talk of artificial general intelligence surpassing human intellect, of technologies that could potentially eliminate death, solve all problems, and optimize every aspect of life. This isn’t just technological ambition—it repeats the same old dreams of secular eschatology, where salvation comes not from grace but from industry.
But as Antiqua et Nova reminds us, “not all technological advancements in themselves represent genuine human progress” (38). The question isn’t just what AI can do, but what it’s doing to us—how it’s reshaping our relationship with work, with the environment, with one another, and even with ourselves.
The limits of tools and the ends of humanity
Our tools have always extended our natural capacities. A crane can lift more than any human; a car can move faster than our legs ever could. But these tools don’t replace our fundamental human abilities—they serve different purposes. No crane can replicate the tender, intentional act of lifting a child into one’s arms. No car, however fast, can substitute the joy of running by the seashore. These are not simply physical acts; they are expressions of love, presence, and relationality—capacities that no technology can imitate or replace.
AI, despite its astonishing capabilities, is still just a tool. The danger arises when we forget that tools are means to an end, not ends in themselves. As Antiqua et Nova states, “Technology should serve ‘the common good of the entire human family,’ which is ‘the sum total of social conditions that allow people, either as groups or as individuals, to reach their fulfillment more fully and more easily’” (55).
We, as human beings, are not means—we are ends. Our dignity doesn’t come from what we can produce, optimize, or achieve, but from the fact that we exist as unique, irreplaceable persons.
Resisting the idolatry of control
Biblical commentators have always insisted that idolatry is, at its core, about control. Ancient idols were thought to harness divine power, making the unpredictable forces of nature more manageable. In the same way, AI seduces us with the promise of mastery—over information, decision-making, even over life itself. But this illusion comes at a cost. The more we rely on technology to define our reality, the more we risk losing touch with the aspects of life that cannot be quantified: love, mystery, vulnerability, and grace.
The antidote to this modern idolatry is not to reject technology but to simply frame our relationship with it. AI can assist, enhance, and even inspire—but it cannot fulfill the deeper human longing for meaning, connection, and transcendence. As Antiqua et Nova concludes, “True wisdom demands an encounter with reality” (59)—not just virtual simulations or algorithmic predictions, but the raw, unscripted beauty of life as it is.
