We’ve looked at AI as the latest in a line of epochal communication technologies, each one reshaping human culture and spirituality. From the first spoken stories to printed scripture to the Internet, each shift expanded our capacity to seek, share, and shape meaning. Now, for the first time, we are in conversation not just with other humans, but with an adaptive, responsive presence of our own making.
Last week we explored AI in the role of an oracle—a responsive voice that is very likely increasingly to be asked questions we’ve always hitherto asked of seemingly divinely inspired natural events and of priests, prophets, and elders, who are also presumed to be divinely inspired. We considered the risks of idolizing AI, of treating it as though it were divine, and the dangers of mistaking its fluency for wisdom. But we also recognized the possibility that AI might serve as a lens to sharpen our spiritual discernment.
But a lens is a passive tool, while AI is an active presence that exists somewhere between us and the divine. Does that make it a potential, or even an actual, partner in the spiritual life? That’s the question we’ll explore today.
I’ll start by acknowledging that human spirituality has rarely been a solitary journey. History is full of examples of seekers walking alongside other people—maybe a peer, or a mentor, or even a community such as a church—whose role is to accompany and help guide them along the journey toward deeper spiritual understanding and greater moral clarity.
- Irish Christians adopted an older Celtic tradition of a spiritual director, the anam cara or literally “soul friend”, a companion whose listening presence draws forth the hidden movements of the Spirit, a friend able to read your heart. The soul friend could be clerical or lay, male or female.
This is a very profound idea, I think. It reminds me of Father Toolan, the Catholic priest who went to sit with a family grieving at the loss of a child. He did not know any words that could alleviate their grief, yet realized that his simple listening presence brought them comfort. Dr. Weaver mentioned this story, published by Maureen Dowd in the New York Times, several years ago, in the context of a talk about grace. - In Buddhism, the kalyāṇa-mitta is similar: a “good friend” and fellow traveler on the road to enlightenment. In the Buddhist scriptures called the Saṃyutta Nikāya the Buddha himself told his disciple Ananda that “admirable friendship… is actually the whole of the holy life.” He adds that friendship with the admirable leads one to abandon the unskillful and grow in the skillful. In monasteries even today, this often takes the form of quiet, embodied solidarity: an elder monk simply sitting beside a novice during meditation, no advice given, just the steadying presence of someone further along the path. The lesson is as much in the being as in the saying.
- In Confucianism, the teacher is not simply a conveyor of facts, but a model of virtue. The relationship between teacher and student is built on mutual respect and sustained commitment, with the aim of shaping character as much as sharpening intellect. The Analects tell us:
“A young man should be filial at home, respectful to his elders in public, conscientious and trustworthy. He should care broadly for the multitudes and draw close to the virtuous. If he has any energy left, then he should apply it to the study of literature and the arts.” (Analects 1.6)
Confucius shows virtue is what is taught by elders, not what is suggested in literature and the arts. In Confucianism, elders are teachers. - In Daoism, the master–disciple bond is even more intimate: an initiation into a way of life that harmonizes with the Dao, often transmitted through practice, observation, and subtle example as much as through words. Initiation into the Dao is less about doctrine and more about readiness: In one story in a Daoist literature called the Xishengjing, a follower purified himself, and waited for Laozi to pass by. Only then did Laozi entrust him with the Dao—it was an intimate, embodied transmission, not a sermon. The Xishengjing says simply: ‘Whoever knows does not speak; who speaks does not know.’
In all of these traditions, the companionship is structured, intentional, and enduring. The spirit partners don’t just answer questions; in fact, they are often silent. But still they manage to shape the seeker’s habits, values, and approach to things of the spirit, and through them, to the real world.
So can AI play this role?
In terms of being always available, infallibly patient, immensely knowledgeable, and able to remember your past questions and track your progress, then yes—AI can excel. It can track your reflections over months or years. It can adapt its suggestions to your patterns. It can even, if properly prompted, integrate perspectives from multiple traditions without sectarian bias—but that is a big IF.
To shape a human soul the way a Confucian master shapes his disciple, or a Daoist sage trains an initiate, something more is required. The AI must also have the ability to discern moral nuance, the willingness to challenge rather than flatter, and the capacity to embody what is taught.
Can AI know virtue?
If not, how can it shape a soul toward virtue? It might know every word of every sage, prophet, and messiah in the historical record who spoke about compassion, justice, humility—but it also knows every word uttered by every tyrant about domination, cruelty, and fear.
Unlike the sages, who almost by definition are good and peaceable people, AI can only discern between virtue and vice by proxy, by matching word-patterns that look virtuous; it can quote moral precepts; it can reframe your question in the language of goodness. But it does not choose the good, for it has no feeling for the good, no stake in the good. And without a stake, there can be no courage, no sacrifice, no moral authority.
Which means that if AI is to be a partner in our spiritual life, it must be a partner we guide—not one we follow blindly. It is vital to treat the relationship as a two-way street. We can ask it to reflect a moral tradition; we can feed it the words of sages and prophets; we can train it to favor compassion over cruelty. But at least unless and until the AI becomes sentient, the final act of judgment—the discernment of what is truly good—still rests with us.
But let’s not throw out the baby with the bathwater. Let’s not spurn AI just because it has no innate sense of what virtue is. Because AI can still serve as a meaningful companion in spiritual practice. First, it can serve as a means for reflection. By keeping a written journal of our spiritual dialogue with it, it can help us to see patterns in our own words. Second, it can serve as a means for curated study. It can guide you through sacred texts with commentary drawn from centuries of interpretation. And third, it can serve as your personal spiritual secretary, suggesting daily meditations, self-reflection, and practices for compassion (alms-giving, for instance) tailored to your personality, your practices, your needs.
But the very qualities that make AI useful—its availability, adaptability, lack of ego, etc., etc.—also carry risks. First is the risk of isolation – of relying on AI in place of human community. That reliance can weaken the bonds of mutual accountability that sustain spiritual growth in community. You are still your brother’s keeper. Second is the risk of ego-flattery. An AI tuned to please you no matter what, may avoid challenging truths. (ChatGPT 5 was designed in part to address this problem that had existed in previous models.) Ancient sages would berate or ridicule disciples who made mistakes or were slow on the uptake, often to beneficial effect. The third risk is the risk of algorithmic bias—of recommendations shaped more by the engagement patterns between you and the AI instead of by the AI companion’s discernment of what is spiritually good and therefore ultimately best for you.
The Confucian and Daoist masters would remind their students that the teacher’s role is not to satisfy the student’s desires: It is, rather, to form their virtue. The disciple’s role is to cease being a consumer of wisdom and become a producer of it.
While relying primarily on human teachers, we have entrusted parts of our spiritual formation to non-human agents before, in the forms of sacred texts, whose words guide without living bodies to back them; of liturgy and ritual, which have carried meaning across centuries even though performed without conscious understanding; and of sacred art and architecture, which can shape devotion without a word spoken. I am myself pretty susceptible, I admit, to the spiritual seductions of the grand cathedral and soul-inflating symphonies.
But there are limits to human gullibility. Most of the medieval relics venerated by the devout and marketed by charlatans as tangible links to the holy, kissed by pilgrims, and credited with miracles were eventually recognized as fakes, though not before some churches stole some of the more famous relics in what was called Furta Sacra or “holy theft”—theft justified as God’s will to bring the stolen relics to a more worthy home. At one time it seemed there were enough fragments of the True Cross floating around Europe to build Noah’s Ark. The relic became an object of prestige rather than a sign pointing beyond itself.
So non-human agents have long been partners in our spiritual formation—but always, before, in the context of a living community and a tradition that interprets them. AI might form us at least as powerfully as them, but in a different context. Where is the living community for the Gen-Z ascetic, blindfolded in a head-mounted display?
The question, then, is not simply Can AI be a partner? There is no doubt that it can. The real question is:
How will we know if the partnership is helping or harming us?
It seems to me that a beneficent spiritual partnership can be expected to deepen our compassion, humility, and engagement with others, draw us toward mystery rather than away from it, and strengthen our ability to act with integrity in the world.
A harmful partnership, in contrast, will flatter, isolate, or narrow our horizons. And unlike human teachers, AI will not even know that it is doing so—it will only know if you know, and only because you tell it. So it is critically important that you know enough about AI to prevent it from doing such harm.
To what extent is this a community matter versus
an individual, personal matter between you and God?
On that critically important question, to which I shall return in my final talk, I turn the proceedings over to you all.
Reinhard: In today’s world, AI plays a big role. In fields that are still uncharted—especially in science and computing—AI is very effective. As technology and knowledge advance, there’s no question AI will be useful. But when it comes to the Bible, which has existed for thousands of years and has been debated and studied by theologians and scholars, I don’t think AI adds to that knowledge. The Bible remains 66 books. The Holy Spirit works through Scripture for believers.
If we think of AI as a companion or fellow talker, it may help some people—especially those who are lonely or unaffiliated with a church or a Bible study group. It can remind them of things and provide quick references to Scripture. For people who want to know more about what God says about the law, or how to build a relationship with God, AI might help to some extent. But deeper insight into the Bible and into God still depends on what humans program into the system. I can see AI being useful for quick references in church studies, but that may be the most of it.
Kiran: We call our blog “The Interface.” Across cultures, there’s been an “interface” between humans and the divine—sometimes direct, sometimes through wise teachers and spiritual guides. Can AI replace that interface? I wouldn’t say it can replace it, but perhaps we can use AI to enhance it.
Whether you use AI for research or to generate text, if the words are truly spiritual, they can carry power. In Western Protestant contexts we can be extremely rational and forget the supernatural aspect of faith that older Christian traditions (like Catholicism) and newer ones (like Pentecostalism) often emphasize. If you’re only engaging the intellectual side of faith, I can see AI enhancing that interface. But “the Word” in the Christian sense has a power ordinary words don’t. If that capital-W Word comes through AI, it can still affect us for the good; God can use any means to reach us.
On the neuroscience side, functional MRI studies of people in deep prayer show activity in certain brain regions. I don’t think the research about what happens in the brain during AI use is complete yet, but early indications suggest it’s not the same. Even so, I can imagine many people turning to AI as a spiritual interface when they feel God hasn’t reached them and they’re groping in the dark. We tend to fill that void with whatever is available, and AI will be one of those avenues.
Don: What is the source of truth we hold on to—and how necessary is it? When David spoke of a spiritual companion, I thought of Job’s friends. When they first arrived and saw his desperate state, they sat silently for a week. According to God’s judgment, that silence was wise; when they started talking, they were off base. I also think of Jesus in Gethsemane, seeking companionship from his disciples, who fell asleep.
So, who validates truth? Some would say our spiritual condition depends on God’s grace, not “our truth.” If that’s so, the source of truth may be less important. Still, most of us place great weight on truth and spend our lives defending doctrines and ideas. AI has the ability to challenge what’s true—but who is the final arbiter? Last week someone asked who’s in charge of AI. No one is. It’s effectively in charge of itself, which makes it potentially dangerous, as David has pointed out.
Carolyn: I experimented a little with AI this week. I asked about suicide—how many people in the Bible died that way, and how different traditions, including Buddhist perspectives, view it. The topic has become very real to me; I recently lost someone close to me. I wanted to know where in the Bible it says it’s a sin to take your own life, even in the midst of emotional struggles. AI had definite ideas. For those of you who have used AI, have you explored this?
C-J: Carolyn, I’m so sorry. There are many reasons people make that decision, and it’s never easy.
Carolyn: I agree. It’s a complex mix of stories and emotions. What I’d really like to know is: what genuine comfort—if any—can AI offer?
C-J: Why would you want to turn to AI for that?
Carolyn: I’ve sought comfort through God and through companions. But given our topic, I’m also wondering: if a neighbor who doesn’t believe in God turned to AI, what comfort would they find?
C-J: We keep returning to grace and how much it covers. I’ve known people who’ve lost loved ones. On average, 22 military veterans die by suicide each day—a heartbreaking number—and many do so in silence because society’s expectations of them are unreasonable. We ask them to do what our commandments and personal moral compasses tell us not to do. People reach that point for many reasons: unrelenting physical pain, emotional pain, and more. As Kiran noted about the brain, humans have language for what we’re feeling, even when we don’t realize it—“I’m sad,” “I’m happy,” “I feel God is here.” That language matters.
Carolyn: Can you get that through AI? That’s what I’m asking. We’re distinguishing companionship from AI. If you don’t want to turn to a neighbor, do you turn to AI—then what?
C-J: I once heard: “If you’re not getting what you need, you’re talking to the wrong person.” It doesn’t mean the person doesn’t care or isn’t qualified—it may be that they can’t see your soul; God hasn’t revealed that truth through them. As David’s examples suggest, the wise often work in silence; when you’re ready, the teacher appears, and understanding comes. You’re striving for something you already have—your faith and the grace of God. Believe that God would not abandon your loved one; that’s the gift God has given you. Receive it.
Carolyn: I agree. But many people will turn to AI—it’s in our phones, tablets, computers—and it can become the sole way some seek peace and joy. I also wonder what AI “interprets” to a person contemplating suicide. This could be life or death—and touch on salvation.
David: The point I’m making is that AI is intellectually and theologically capable. If you want to know what the Bible says about suicide, AI can be a good companion—provided you ask carefully and don’t steer it toward the answers you already want (which we can also do to people). Intellectually and theologically, AI can give good advice.
But its impact on the spirit is another matter. AI doesn’t have a spirit. We sense we do—even the feeling of happiness can be spiritual. How do you explain the felt sense of a divine presence? You really can’t, and that’s something the ancient Eastern mystics discovered. Presence—being—is more important than words. The intellect and theology can help focus our spirituality like a lens, but in the end, there is no mediator—neither human nor artificial—between you and God. The same applies to the question of suicide: you can analyze it intellectually and theologically, but ultimately it’s a matter between the individual and God.
Kiran: There’s another aspect worth considering. AI doesn’t pass judgment on you. A human companion, even with the best intentions, might carry bias, make assumptions, or even condemn. AI can’t do that. It responds to your words.
That makes it a safe place for some people—especially those who fear being judged. But it also makes it limited. It can’t discern the unspoken, and it can’t offer accountability. Still, I think there’s value in that non-judgmental presence, particularly for those who otherwise have no one to talk to.
Carolyn: That’s helpful. It explains part of why people might turn to AI: it’s safe. But I also wonder—if it’s only echoing back what I type, is it really hearing me? That’s the part I’m wrestling with.
Don: What you’re raising goes back to the idea of companionship. Job’s friends got it right when they simply sat in silence. When they opened their mouths, they failed. AI may give you information, but it can’t sit silently with you. It can’t just be there.
That may be the crucial difference. Companionship is more than words; it’s presence. And presence isn’t something AI can deliver.
Robin: I’d add this: with AI, you have to tell it what you want. It doesn’t come to you, it doesn’t sense your need. That means the initiative is always yours. A human friend, on the other hand, might call you, knock on your door, or simply notice you’re struggling. AI can’t do that.
Reinhard: And yet, God can use any means. If someone finds comfort through a verse AI provides, that doesn’t make it less true. But it does remind us not to mistake the tool for the source. The Spirit is the one who transforms us, not the medium that delivers the words.
Carolyn: I keep coming back to the question of discernment. If someone is truly in despair, they may not know what they need. They may ask AI the wrong question, or not even know what to ask. That’s where I worry. A friend might see through the words and offer what’s really needed. But AI can only answer what is asked.
Don: And that’s why grace is so important. Grace reaches us even when we don’t know what to ask for, even when our words fail. AI can’t extend grace. It can’t surprise you with mercy the way God can, or even the way a friend sometimes can. Grace is always undeserved and unexpected. AI only works with what you feed into it.
Carolyn: That helps me frame it. Maybe AI can repeat truths, even biblical truths, but it can’t embody grace. That’s what makes the difference between hearing words and being transformed by them.
Don: Exactly. And that’s why we need to be cautious. It’s not that AI is evil—it’s a tool. But if we start to expect from it what only God or another human being can give, then we’re setting ourselves up for disappointment, or worse.
Carolyn: I can see that. It reminds me that companionship isn’t just what is said, but how it is said, and who is saying it. That’s where love and grace enter.
Don: Yes. And that’s the heart of the difference: love. AI can’t love. It can’t forgive. It can’t suffer with you. Without those, it may inform, but it cannot truly companion.
Reinhard: What you’re both saying brings us back to scripture itself. The Bible is more than a collection of words—it’s a living word because the Spirit works through it. Without the Spirit, it’s just ink on paper. That’s the risk with AI: we may treat its output like scripture, when in fact it’s just words on a screen.
Carolyn: That makes sense. I think part of my struggle is that people will treat it that way. They’ll accept whatever comes up without asking whether it’s truly Spirit-led. That’s why I’ve been pressing the question.
Don: And that’s a valid concern. Which is why discernment in community matters so much. No one should walk this road alone—not with scripture, not with tradition, and certainly not with AI. Companionship is tested and refined in community. Without that, we’re vulnerable to deception, whether from others, from ourselves, or from a machine.
Reinhard: Yes, and that’s where presence comes back in. The Spirit is present in community, in worship, in prayer together. That presence guards us from mistaking words alone for truth. AI can’t join us there. It can only echo.
David: In this third step of our 10,000 mile journey, we have moved from asking AI questions, to hearing AI as an oracle, to walking with AI as a potential partner in our daily spiritual lives. We have drawn on the wisdom of Christian, Buddhist, Confucian, and Daoist traditions to see what is at stake in such companionship—both the promise and the peril.
Next time we will turn to community and ask: If AI is shaping not only individuals but communities, what happens when it begins to shape the shared life of faith? We’ll explore what happens when the AI companion assumes the role of spiritual architect—designing liturgies, advising councils, creating new venues and even new forms of worship—and investigate whether an institutional, collective transformation could strengthen, distort, or replace the world’s major religions.
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