Techno Jesus: AI, Technology and Christian Spirituality

I have ADHD, and AI has revolutionised how I approach research, manage tasks, and train my attention towards things that matter to me. If technology can help me engage more deeply with something I care about, why wouldn’t I explore what it could offer prayer, Scripture, or life in a church community?

Can Technology Deepen Christian Spirituality?

We already accept quite a lot of help when we pray. We read words somebody else wrote, listen to music, light candles, and look at images. A prayer book gives us language when we struggle to find our own. An audio Bible lets us hear a passage while walking.

AI can answer back, and we have to decide how much to trust its response. I’m interested in whether that back-and-forth helps someone stay with a passage or pray in their own words. I’d also want to understand what it changes about the practice along the way.

John’s Gospel introduces Jesus as the Word who became flesh and lived among us (John 1:14). In the Gospels, he eats with people, touches the sick, and gets tired. For me, that makes it difficult to imagine Christian spirituality as something we do by getting our bodies and their needs out of the way. The person praying has a particular body, a particular mind, and circumstances that affect how they pray.

Technology, Disability and Accessible Worship

Take the expectation that prayer happens best when we sit still in silence. That can be a helpful practice, but I wouldn’t assume that difficulty with it tells us much about someone’s desire for God. A person might find it easier to listen to a Psalm while walking, or follow a short guided prayer. A reminder on their phone might help them return to prayer during the week.

The same applies when we gather. Captions and transcripts can make a sermon accessible to someone who cannot hear it or needs more time to process what was said. Speech-to-text could help someone prepare the prayers they will lead. A member living with chronic illness might be able to lead a small prayer group by video even when travelling to the church building is difficult.

I’m drawn to that last possibility because it changes who gets to contribute. In 1 Corinthians 12, Paul describes a church whose members need one another and whose gifts belong to the whole body. If our arrangements make it difficult for someone to take part, the congregation also misses out on what they bring. So I’d want the conversation about technology to begin with the people facing those barriers. They may have a much simpler idea than whatever the church was about to buy.

Using Virtual Reality for Christian Prayer

Then there is the idea of putting on a headset to pray, which admittedly takes a little more getting used to. Imagine being unable to travel to a retreat, but having access to a headset and a guided time of prayer in a quiet virtual chapel. You hear a Gospel passage, sit with it, and have time to pray without the programme constantly moving you on to the next thing.

The Church of England’s 2022 Prayers at the Foot of the Cross, filmed at Bristol Cathedral, brought prayer, choral music, and silence into a 360-degree service viewable with or without a headset.

I can also see a connection with Ignatian imaginative prayer, where someone pictures themselves within a Gospel scene and attends to Jesus. A virtual setting might give a person a way into that practice. Of course, a designer would be deciding what the scene looked and sounded like, so we would need to recognise those details as an interpretation. A convincing reconstruction could easily make us forget how much has been imagined.

A headset may be distracting or uncomfortable for some people, and an audio recording may work better. I’d ask those who try it what helped them pray and what got in the way.

How AI Can Help with Bible Study

AI interests me for a slightly different reason: you can keep asking it to explain something. If an answer assumes knowledge you don’t have, you can ask it to go back a step. You can compare interpretations, work through unfamiliar terms, or break a large research task into something you can actually begin.

Given the difference AI has made to my own research, I can see why this would be useful to someone opening a biblical commentary and wondering whether they need another book just to understand the first one. They might ask for an explanation of the argument, then return to the commentary with a clearer idea of what the author is saying. They could also bring a more specific question to their Bible study group.

I would be careful about letting the answer end the enquiry, though. AI can produce plausible explanations and references that turn out to be wrong. With theology, there is also the question of whose interpretation it has presented as obvious. Asking where an idea comes from, checking the source, and reading a different view are part of using it well. I want to come away better able to read the passage and judge an interpretation for myself.

Using AI to Write Sermons

For someone preparing to preach, that help can extend into the writing itself. A minister could give AI their notes and argument, ask for a first draft, and work through the result. It might suggest a structure they hadn’t considered or help untangle a paragraph that looks fine on the page but sounds dreadful aloud. Tools such as Logos’s Sermon Assistant already offer help with outlines, illustrations, applications, and discussion questions.

I can understand why people hesitate here. Working out what to say is part of coming to understand a passage. If a preacher skips that process and delivers an argument they have barely considered, the congregation may hear something polished that its speaker cannot really explain. There is also the congregation itself to consider. A sermon on forgiveness will be heard differently by someone recovering from abuse, and a fluent draft may fail to recognise what its advice would ask of that person.

Also, it’s worth noting there is no substitute for the Spirit. A good preacher labours over the text and submits it to God. Technology will always have its limits. But I wonder if occasionally the Spirit can even work through code.

I think AI could help write a sermon if the preacher can explain and take responsibility for the final words. Quotations need checking, invented stories cannot become personal testimony, and substantial AI involvement ought to be acknowledged. Private pastoral conversations also need to stay private; they aren’t material to casually paste into a prompt.

There are useful possibilities after Sunday as well. St John’s Cathedral in Brisbane is exploring AI in ministry, including devotional material and ways of sharing sermons with reflection questions and captions. A checked, plain-language summary could help a group return to a difficult sermon during the week. I like the possibility of giving people more time with an idea, especially when hearing it once wasn’t enough.

AI, Mental Health and Pastoral Care

Someone struggling to contact a pastor, friend, or counsellor might ask AI to help organise what they want to say. They can read the draft, change it, and decide whether it says enough to begin the conversation. For someone who keeps putting off that first message, having a few sentences to work with could help.

Healthdirect explains how online services can connect people with mental health support, while advising that AI should not replace professional care. A church can help someone find a qualified counsellor and make room for prayer and friendship alongside that care. A quiet video conversation may also be easier to manage than a crowded gathering for someone who is struggling.

I’ve written before about knowing and being known. If AI helps someone put words to what they are going through, I’d hope it also becomes easier to share that with a person they trust. Someone who knows them can stay in touch over time and ask how things are going. A video call might make that possible during a week when meeting in person is too much.

For a church wanting to try some of this, I’d start with a conversation: what are people finding difficult, and what would they like help with? Let them help decide what happens next, then give them time to try it. I’d want to hear from the person who joined the discussion, or found a way of praying they wanted to keep.

Hard to Pray

The prayer I can’t quite pray yet

I keep meaning to say something to you, God.
Or maybe not to you.
Maybe at you.
But then I stop.
It catches somewhere in my chest.

It is not that I do not believe.
I do.
Probably too much.
It just hurts in ways I do not know what to do with.

If you are listening
and I keep hoping you are
you would hear all of it.
The sharpness in my voice.
The tiredness tucked in my bones.
That little stone in my coat pocket
I have carried since winter started.
It is smoothed down now
from my fingers rubbing it.

I do not want this to be prayer.
I want prayer to sound like afternoons when I was ten,
playing video games with the window open,
Tracey Chapman’s voice spilling from the stereo,
and Mum cleaning in the background,
the smell of dust and polish drifting into the room.

But this is all I have
bits of half sentences
silences that keep stretching
the weight of this stone in my pocket.

If you are there
and I guess you already know if you are
then you know
this is the best I can manage
today.

The God Who Refuses to Behave: Wrestling with God at Peniel

I’ve been told God is tidy. Predictable.

A polite guest who knocks at the door of my heart (Revelation 3:20)
and waits patiently until I invite Him in.

Calm. Respectable.
Never raising His voice.
Never moving a chair out of place
unless I have done something so bad He cannot ignore it.

But that is not the God I have met.

The God I know does not knock.

He storms in
like a summer squall,
blowing the screen door off its hinges.

I have felt Him in the sting of sudden tears while washing dishes.
In the silence after a friend spoke truth I did not want to hear.
In the way a bush can blaze in the middle of nowhere (Exodus 3:2).

He walks through locked rooms (John 20:19).
He meets you in the night for a wrestling with God
until you cannot tell if you are losing or being saved
just as Jacob did at Peniel (Genesis 32:24–30).

Some days I love Him for this.
Some days I do not.


Not the God of Neat Theology

I used to think faith was holding the right answers in a tight grip.

I could draw the Trinity’s diagram.
Recite the problem of evil like a manual.
God as a solved equation.

But He slipped through my grip.

Like wind through a cracked window
rattling the frame.

Job knew this.
He asked for reasons and got a whirlwind (Job 38–41).

Questions instead of answers.
Not cruelty, invitation.
Awe, not explanation.

The Bible’s God has edges.

Fire on Sinai (Exodus 19:18).
A whisper Elijah almost misses (1 Kings 19:12).
Splitting seas (Exodus 14:21–22).
Walking gardens at dusk (Genesis 3:8).

Same God.
No one pattern.
The same untameable God who shows up in ways we never expect.


The Unmanageable Presence

We put Him in systems.
Creeds.
Charts.

Doctrine matters.
But I have seen how beautiful cages still hold prisoners.

And the God inside always finds a way out.

Jeremiah sees almond blossoms in winter (Jeremiah 1:11–12).
Hosea marries the unfaithful (Hosea 3:1).
Mary gives birth in straw and animal breath (Luke 2:7).

None of it fits the script.

The mystics knew.

Meister Eckhart prayed, “God, rid me of God.”
Julian of Norwich called Him “our clothing”
close as skin
but also a love without edge or floor.


The Rebellion of Love

I have heard Him in creation groaning (Romans 8:22).
In the psalmist’s clenched fist:
“Awake, O Lord! Why do You sleep?” (Psalm 44:23).

I have seen Him in the eyes of the crucified
where my answers go to die (Mark 15:34).

I do not want the domesticated god anymore.

The god who never interrupts.
The god who never overturns.

The real God flips tables (John 2:15).
Strips my blankets.
Leaves me with Himself.

No roadmap.
No checklist.

Just a Presence.
Wild. Untameable.
Too beautiful to bear for long.


The Limp of Faith: Wrestling with God

Jacob left Peniel with a blessing and a limp.

The limp is holy.
The awkward walk of those who have been wrestling with God
and lived to tell of it.

I have learned to live with mine.
To let mystery sit where certainty used to.

God’s ways are higher (Isaiah 55:8–9).
Not just in glory
in strangeness too.

Let the theologians frown.
Let the pious keep their polite God.

I will take the One who wrestles me until dawn.
Who wounds to heal.
Who tears down my idols
and gives me Himself.


The Dangerous God Who Saves

He will not fit my doctrines.
But He will fit my wounds.

He splits seas.
Mends hearts.
Consumes like fire (Hebrews 12:29).
Hides me like a refuge (Psalm 32:7).

He will not behave.
And that is good news.

Because a God who will not behave
is a God who will cross every line to find me.

Even the line between life and death.

If that is dangerous theology
then give me more danger.


And if You will not behave

If You will not behave
neither will I.

I will not pray tidy prayers.
I will pray with fists.
With silence.
With the names I do not know how to use for You.

If You will not stay in the lines
take me with You.

Past the fences.
Past the rules.
Past the maps I drew to keep from getting lost.

Find me in the dark.
Wrestle me to the ground.

Bless me with the limp
that teaches me how to walk.

And I will call it love.

Written in Heaven

A biblical theology of suffering and hope

Suffering will find you

as it found Him.

But your name is written in heaven,

In light no shadow can touch.

In the beginning,

God breathed into dust

and called it good.

But even before the dust was firm beneath our feet,

a shadow waited.

The Serpent spoke,

and we listened.

The Garden shrank behind flaming swords,

and we stepped into the world

with thorns in our hands

and longing in our bones.

(Genesis 3)


Pain was not the beginning

but it was the consequence of forgetting

who we are.

Still, God did not turn away.

He clothed the shame.

He called the wanderers.

He wrestled with Jacob,

wept with Hannah,

answered Job not with reasons

but with a storm.

He carved covenant into stone,

carried the cries of Israel through wilderness,

and spoke comfort even in exile.

(Exodus, Deuteronomy, Isaiah, Lamentations)


And when words would no longer suffice,

The Word became flesh (John 1).

Not safe flesh,

not unmarked flesh

but bruised, bloody, breakable.

He came not to explain suffering

but to inhabit it.

To be born under empire,

to labour in obscurity,

to sweat blood,

to carry a cross.

“He was a man of sorrows,

acquainted with grief.”

(Isaiah 53:3)


The God of the cosmos

entered the wound of the world

and made it His dwelling place.

The cross is not a detour.

It is the way.

“If anyone would follow me,” He says,

“Let them deny themselves,

take up their cross daily,

and follow.”

(Luke 9:23)

This is not cruelty.

It is an invitation.

To union. To dying. To resurrection.

To be baptised not only in water,

but into His death.

(Romans 6:3–5)


And yet

your name is written in heaven.

(Luke 10:20)

This is what He told them, not after comfort, but after conflict.

Not when they were safe, but when they were sent.

When they saw demons fall and darkness tremble,

He said:

“Do not rejoice in this…”

“Rejoice that your names are written in heaven.”

Because what matters

is not that you wield power,

but that you are known.

Held.

Remembered.

Inscribed in the eternal.

“See, I have engraved you

on the palms of my hands.”

(Isaiah 49:16)


The apostles knew.

They were beaten and blessed.

Scattered and sealed.

They rejoiced to suffer disgrace for the Name. (Acts 5:41)

Paul was no stranger to thorns

in the flesh, in the church, in his prayers.

And yet he wrote:

“We suffer with Him,

that we may also be glorified with Him.”

(Romans 8:17)

“These light and momentary afflictions

are preparing for us

an eternal weight of glory.”

(2 Corinthians 4:17)

Even creation groans, but not in despair,

in birth.

(Romans 8:22)


The Spirit does not take away the ache.

The Spirit groans with us.

Prays when we have no words.

Dwells in the dust with us

until all things are made new.

And they will be.

For He will come again.

Not as a suffering servant,

but as the One who wipes every tear.

(Revelation 21:4)


And He will not forget.

He will open the book, the Lamb’s book

and read the names

that the world has tried to erase.

The names written in heaven

before the foundations of the world.

(Revelation 13:8)

Yours among them.

Suffering is not the evidence that you are lost.

It is the path of the saints,

the shape of the cross,

the echo of Eden groaning toward glory.

And you,

even as you weep,

even when you are wounded—

are not forgotten.

Your name is written in heaven,

in light no shadow can touch.

And the One who knows it

still bears scars of His own.

The Deep, the Breath, and the Beginning of Meaning

Poetic and Theological Reflections on Genesis 1:1–2

“Now the earth was formless and empty, darkness was over the surface of the deep, and the Spirit of God was hovering over the waters.” — Genesis 1:2

In the beginning

there was no beginning.

Not like we think.

Not a ticking clock

not a big bang or a blank slate.

Only

deep.

dark.

Formless

unfurnished

uninviting.

And the Breath of God

hovering

not rushing

not fixing

not panicking

just waiting.

A mother-bird

brooding over brokenness

wings sheltering what could be.

This is where our story starts

not in triumph

but in tension.

Not in arrival

but in anticipation.

In the beginning,

God didn’t make things

not first.

God made room.

A place.

A sacred space.

He carved order out of what was not yet useful.

He called forth function

from futility.

He said:

“Let this be a place where I dwell

and they dwell.

Let it be home.”

The first act of creation

was not to build

but to breathe.

And the Breath still moves

over your chaos.

over your depths.

over your formless days

and unlit nights.

Don’t rush the Spirit.

It’s still hovering.

It’s still preparing.

It’s still holy.

Because in the beginning,

God made time to wait.

And called even the waiting good.

A Theological Reflection

Genesis does not begin with a scientific explanation nor with abstract philosophy. It begins with God. “In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth” (Genesis 1:1). But what follows is striking: “Now the earth was formless and empty”—tohu v’vohu in Hebrew—”darkness was over the surface of the deep, and the Spirit of God was hovering over the waters” (Genesis 1:2). The story opens not with perfection, but with potential. Not with answers but with mystery.

This state of tohu v’vohu—wild, waste, and without purpose—is not described as a problem to be eradicated but a canvas awaiting intention. In the biblical imagination, this primordial chaos is not evil. It is simply untamed. The deep, or tehom, is not a demonic force to conquer, as in the Babylonian Enuma Elish, but an unordered reality that awaits divine speech.

Genesis 1 is not a science textbook. Nor is it an ancient myth. It is sacred theology told through poetic narrative. As I’ve written elsewhere, Genesis 1 is not about material origins but functional order. It’s not primarily about how the world was made but how God gave it meaning. In the ancient Near Eastern mindset, something did not truly “exist” until it had a name, a function, a role in the cosmic order. As Old Testament scholar John Walton argues, creation in Genesis is about assigning purpose, not assembling matter.

This is evident in the structure of the text: six days of calling forth realms and rulers—light and dark (Day 1), sky and sea (Day 2), land and vegetation (Day 3), and then the lights (Day 4), birds and fish (Day 5), animals and humanity (Day 6). Each act ends with God’s affirmation: “And God saw that it was good” (Genesis 1:10, 12, 18, etc.). Good not as morally perfect, but functioning as intended. Creation is liturgy. Each day builds like a worship service, culminating in God’s rest on the seventh day (Genesis 2:1–3).

Genesis 1 portrays the world as a cosmic temple, with God taking up residence on Day 7. In the ancient world, a temple was not finished until the deity rested within it. “The heavens are my throne, and the earth is my footstool,” says the Lord in Isaiah 66:1—a temple image that harks back to Eden. When God rests, it’s not because he is tired but because creation is complete, purposeful, and ready to be inhabited by the divine presence.

Notice also what God does not do. The Spirit of God does not launch into production but hovers—rachaph in Hebrew—like a bird tending its young (Deuteronomy 32:11 uses the same word to describe an eagle hovering over its nest). This is not a moment of domination but of delicate presence. Before God says a word, God is simply there, waiting, brooding, holding space. The Spirit does not conquer the darkness but prepares the way for light.

This image is carried throughout Scripture. In the Gospels, when Jesus is baptized, the heavens open, and the Spirit descends like a dove (Luke 3:22). The waters part, the voice speaks, and once again, God hovers over the waters—not in creation now, but in new creation. Paul will echo this theme in 2 Corinthians 5:17: “If anyone is in Christ, the new creation has come.” Creation and re-creation are both acts of divine hovering, divine speaking, divine presence.

Likewise, in John 1, we hear another beginning: “In the beginning was the Word… through him all things were made” (John 1:1–3). This is Genesis 1, revisited with Christ at the centre. The chaos is not overcome by violence but illumined by speech: “The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it” (John 1:5). There is no war between light and dark in Genesis, just a calling forth—of form from formlessness, rhythm from silence, cosmos from chaos.

So we are reminded that Genesis is not just history—it is theological storytelling. It doesn’t answer all the questions of “how,” but it speaks profoundly to the questions of “why.” Who are we? What kind of world do we live in? What kind of God do we serve?

A God who hovers.

A God who speaks meaning into voids.

A God who rests not when he is done making but when the world is ready to be home.

So when we look into our own chaos—personal, cultural, existential—we do so not with fear but with faith. Because the God of Genesis 1 still hovers. Still speaks. Still brings light out of darkness.

Genesis opens not with resolution but with possibility.