Author’s Note
Scripture reminds us that “a word spoken in due season; how good it is” (Proverbs 15:23). My hope is not to speak louder than the moment requires, but faithfully within it—offering reassurance, clarity, and encouragement where fear or confusion might otherwise take root.
It may seem ironic that an essay concerned with artificial Intelligence and human responsibility was prepared with the assistance of an AI system. This was not an accident, but a deliberate choice.
The thoughts, concerns, and scriptural reflections in these pages are my own. They arise from reading the Bible, engaging the Christian theological tradition, and reflecting carefully on what it means to be human before God in a rapidly changing technological age. The AI tool was used only to assist with the practical work of writing—organizing ideas, shaping language, and improving clarity—much like a word processor or reference aid. In simple terms, the tool helped me say what I was already thinking; it did not tell me what to think.
What prompted this project was a growing contrast I could not ignore.
On the one hand, most people are simply living their lives—working long hours, raising children, dropping them off at school, trying to make ends meet, celebrating milestones, grieving losses, and finding moments of joy where they can. Life, in all its ordinary beauty and strain, goes on much as it always has.
On the other hand, a much smaller group of people is shaping technologies whose consequences may reach far beyond any one generation. Figures such as Elon Musk, often described as a leading voice in AI caution, Geoffrey Hinton, sometimes called a “father of modern AI,” and Dario Amodei, along with many others in government, industry, and research, have publicly voiced both hope and concern about the speed and power of these systems. Their warnings are not uniform, but they share a common theme: humanity is developing tools whose reach may exceed our collective wisdom.
This contrast—between everyday life and extraordinary power—is not new.
Scripture tells this story repeatedly. Individual human beings were entrusted with freedom and responsibility in the garden, yet failed to guard what they were given (Genesis 3). Human violence and corruption spread until the flood narrative depicts a world unraveling under its own weight (Genesis 6). Nations sought unity and security apart from God at Babel, only to find their ambitions restrained (Genesis 11). Even Israel, chosen and covenant-bound, struggled to steward power faithfully across generations.
The Bible also widens the lens further. It reminds us that human history unfolds amid spiritual realities beyond what we can see: “We do not wrestle against flesh and blood, but against rulers, against authorities, against the powers of this dark world, and against spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly places” (Ephesians 6:12). Yet even here, Scripture is clear: no principality, no power—human or otherwise—operates outside God’s ultimate sovereignty (Colossians 1:16–17).
This is why the reflections in this work are not rooted in fear or speculation. They are grounded in the long memory of Scripture and in God’s promises.
Jesus Himself acknowledged that human systems, when left unchecked, can become destructive. Yet He also affirmed that history is restrained by mercy: “If those days were not shortened, no flesh would be saved; but for the sake of God’s purposes, those days will be shortened” (Matthew 24:22). Elsewhere, He offers this enduring assurance: “I will build my church, and the gates of hell shall not prevail against it” (Matthew 16:18). God’s plan and purpose are not fragile, nor are they dependent on human perfection.
For this reason, the use of AI in preparing this work is not a contradiction of its message, but an illustration of it. Technology may assist human labor, but it cannot bear moral weight. It cannot discern good from evil, repent, love, or hope. Responsibility, discernment, and accountability remain firmly—and intentionally—human, entrusted to persons made in the image of God.
This work is offered as an act of stewardship. If God has entrusted me with encouragement, reflection, and some understanding of this moment, then I believe it is right to use those gifts for the good of others (1 Peter 4:10)—to reassure fellow believers, and any willing readers, that God has not abandoned His people in the past. He is not about to do so now.
Technology may change. Empires may rise and fall. But God remains faithful, His promises endure, and His purposes will stand.
Correspondence concerning this text should be addressed to Samson Igbeare.
Introduction: When Power Accelerates Faster Than Wisdom
In every generation, humanity discovers new forms of power. Sometimes that power is evident and dramatic — fire, weapons, machines. Other times it is quiet and gradual — writing, currency, systems of organization. In each case, power begins as a gift. It solves problems. It makes life easier. It extends human reach beyond what was once possible. But history also teaches us something sobering: power often grows faster than wisdom.
The Bible is not suspicious of Intelligence or creativity. From the opening chapters of Genesis, human beings are portrayed as thinkers, builders, namers, and stewards. The problem is never that humanity invents or explores. The problem arises when responsibility is surrendered, when tools begin to decide for us, or when authority is exercised without moral restraint.
Today, that accelerating power is often called Artificial Intelligence (AI), and in more advanced discussions, Artificial General Intelligence (AGI). These technologies already assist doctors in diagnosing illness, pilots in navigating complex systems, and researchers in discovering patterns no single mind could see alone. In many cases, AI is genuinely helpful and even life-preserving. And yet, alongside these benefits, a quieter concern has emerged — shared not only by theologians, but by engineers, ethicists, and AI creators themselves.
The concern is not that machines will suddenly become evil. The concern is that human beings may slowly hand over responsibility, trusting systems to decide what we no longer wish to carry ourselves. This concern is not new. Scripture has addressed it before — long before computers, electricity, or code.
When Jesus warned that there would come days so destructive that “no flesh would be saved” unless those days were shortened (Matthew 24:22), He was not offering a prediction chart or inspiring fear. He was naming a truth about human history: when unchecked power accelerates beyond wisdom, life itself becomes vulnerable. But He was also revealing something even more important — that history is not allowed to run without restraint. This essay explores that restraint. Not as an escape from responsibility. Not as an excuse for carelessness. But as a mercy that creates space — space for repentance, for wisdom, for stewardship, and for hope.
To understand why this matters for our moment with AI, we must return to the first time humanity faced power, freedom, and responsibility together — in a garden.
The Garden Revisited: The First Surrender of Responsibility
The Bible’s first story about human power does not begin with violence, empire, or machines.
It begins in a garden. In Genesis, humanity is created with dignity and purpose. Adam is not a passive creature wandering through creation. He is entrusted. He names. He cultivates. He is given authority, but that authority is bounded by relationship and trust. The garden is not a test of Intelligence, but a place of stewardship.
This is important to understand clearly: Adam and Eve are not portrayed as ignorant, primitive, or incapable. They are capable of being held responsible.
The command God gives is not complicated. It is not technical. It is relational. Life in the garden depends on trust—on receiving life as a gift rather than seizing control over it.
When the serpent enters the story, the temptation is subtle. It does not begin with rebellion. It starts with reframing responsibility.
“You will not surely die.” “You will be like God.” “You will know.”
The temptation is not simply to disobey. It is to decide independently, to take hold of moral authority without reference to the One who gave it. And here the text slows us down in a meaningful way.
Adam is present. He hears. He does not intervene. He does not guard. He does not speak. When the moment comes to act, he remains silent. And when the consequences arrive, he does not say, “I failed.” He deflects. “The woman you gave me…”
The responsibility is transferred—away from himself, away from his calling, and ultimately away from God.
This is the first recorded instance in Scripture of what we might call abdication: the quiet surrender of responsibility rather than an overt act of rebellion.
The result is not instant annihilation. God does not erase humanity. But the effects are profound. Disorder enters—trust fractures. Labor becomes burdensome. Relationships strain. Creation itself begins to groan.
Yet even here—at the very beginning—we see something crucial. God does not abandon the world to its consequences without limit. Access to the tree of life is restricted—not as cruelty, but as mercy. Eternal life in a state of corruption would be a curse, not a gift. Boundaries are introduced. History is redirected. A long work of restoration begins.
This pattern matters deeply for how we think about power today. The biblical problem is not knowledge itself. It is not innovation. It is not tools. The problem is severed responsibility—power exercised without moral accountability, decision-making divorced from stewardship. This is why Eden still speaks to modern anxieties about technology.
Artificial Intelligence does not tempt humanity by offering violence or domination. It tempts us by offering relief—relief from thinking, deciding, judging, and bearing the weight of responsibility. It promises efficiency, optimization, and speed. And when used wisely, these are genuine goods.
But the ancient danger remains: when humans stop guarding what they have been entrusted with, when they allow systems to decide what conscience once held, the cost is not immediately visible—but it is real.
Eden teaches us that the most significant risks to humanity do not arrive with fanfare. They come quietly, through convenience, deferral, and the slow erosion of moral attention.
And yet, Eden also teaches us something else. God does not respond to human failure by erasing humanity. He responds by restraining, redirecting, and committing Himself to the long work of redemption.
That same God is the one Jesus speaks of when He warns that history itself would be shortened before life is lost entirely.
To understand that warning, we must now look at how God deals with judgment throughout Scripture—not as abandonment, but as mercy with limits.
Judgment With Limits: God’s Pattern of Restraint
One of the most common misunderstandings about the Bible is the idea that God responds to human failure either with unchecked destruction or passive indifference. Scripture presents neither. Instead, it reveals a consistent and often overlooked pattern: judgment is real, but it is always bounded. This matters deeply for our moment in history, because it shows us how God relates to human power when that power begins to spiral beyond wisdom.
After Eden, the story of Scripture does not rush forward triumphantly. It slows. Violence increases. Corruption spreads. Human systems become increasingly disordered. By the time we reach the story of the flood, the text tells us that “every intention of the thoughts of the human heart was only evil continually” (Genesis 6:5). This is one of the starkest assessments of humanity in the Bible. And yet, even here, God’s response is not annihilation for its own sake.
The flood is often remembered only as judgment. But the story itself emphasizes preservation just as strongly. A remnant is saved. Life is carried forward. And immediately after the flood, God makes a covenant—not only with humanity, but with all living creatures—promising never again to destroy all flesh. This promise is not rooted in human reliability. It is rooted in God’s character. From that moment on, the Bible makes something clear: total destruction is no longer an option God permits within history.
The same pattern appears later with Israel. When Israel abandons justice, exploits the vulnerable, and trusts power rather than God, judgment comes. Nations fall. Cities are destroyed. Exile follows. And yet, exile is never the end of the story. The prophets insist again and again that judgment is not God’s final word. “Though I make a full end of all the nations among whom I scattered you, I will not make a full end of you” (Jeremiah 30:11). This sentence alone captures the biblical tension: consequences are real, but annihilation is restrained.
God allows systems to collapse when they become corrupt beyond repair. He allows the consequences of human decisions to unfold. But He does not allow history itself to collapse into meaninglessness. This is where many modern readers struggle.
We are often tempted to think in extremes:
- Either God prevents all suffering,
- Or God abandons the world entirely.
Scripture offers a third way. God permits judgment as correction, not as erasure. He allows collapse as warning, not as annihilation. He restrains destruction for the sake of life. This pattern is essential for understanding Jesus’ words later.
When Jesus speaks of days so destructive that “no flesh would be saved” unless they were shortened, He is not introducing a new idea. He is drawing from a deep biblical memory. He is naming the same truth seen in Eden, the flood, and exile: human history, left entirely unchecked, tends toward self-destruction—but God does not permit it to reach that end. This does not mean suffering is avoided. It does not mean injustice is ignored. It does not mean human responsibility is removed. It means that God places limits.
These limits do not always look dramatic. Often, they appear as:
- the collapse of overreaching systems,
- the exposure of hidden corruption,
- the interruption of unchecked momentum,
- The preservation of a remnant that carries memory, conscience, and hope forward.
In biblical language, this remnant is not a privileged elite. It is a means of continuity—a way of ensuring that truth, mercy, and relationship are not erased from the earth. This is why Scripture never treats judgment as an end in itself. Judgment is always held within the larger purpose of restoration. Understanding this pattern prepares us to hear Jesus’ warning correctly. Without it, His words sound like a threat. With it, they sound like assurance.
To see that assurance clearly, we must now turn directly to Jesus’ own words—and to what He reveals about the mercy that restrains history itself.
“If Those Days Were Not Shortened”: Jesus and the Mercy That Holds History Back
When Jesus says, “If those days were not shortened, no flesh would be saved. But for the sake of the elect, those days will be shortened,”— Gospel of Matthew 24:22. He is not speaking in riddles meant to frighten His listeners. Nor is He offering a secret timetable of future disasters. He is doing something far more serious—and far more comforting. Jesus is naming a truth about human history itself. To hear His words correctly, we must first understand what He is not saying.
He is not saying that God suddenly realizes things are getting out of hand.
He is not saying that God misjudged human freedom.
He is not saying that evil surprises God or forces Him into last-minute intervention.
Scripture does not allow for that understanding. God is all-knowing. He does not learn by trial and error. He does not discover outcomes after the fact. What Jesus is revealing is not a change in God’s knowledge but a commitment to God’s action. Throughout the Bible, God allows human freedom to operate within history. That freedom is real. It has consequences. It can wound deeply. But it is never permitted to erase life itself. Jesus’ words make that boundary explicit. “If those days were not shortened…”
That phrase assumes something sobering: left entirely unchecked, human systems can become self-annihilating. Violence escalates—deception multiplies. Power feeds on itself. Speed replaces reflection. Responsibility dissolves into process. Jesus does not blame God for this. He names it as a human reality. “No flesh would be saved.”
This is not an exaggeration for effect. It is moral realism. Jesus is acknowledging that human beings, when armed with accelerating power and stripped of restraint, can destroy the conditions for life itself. But then comes the turn. “But for the sake of the elect, those days will be shortened.” This is where misunderstanding often enters. “The elect” does not mean a small group spared from suffering while others are discarded. In biblical language, election is about preservation of purpose, not exemption from pain. The elect are those through whom memory, conscience, and hope remain alive in the world.
For their sake—for the sake of continuity, for the sake of mercy, for the sake of life—history is restrained. The shortening of days does not mean that suffering vanishes. It implies suffering is bounded. It means collapse is interrupted before it becomes total erasure. It means God refuses to allow human freedom to end in nonexistence.
In the story of the widow of Zarephath in Luke 4, Jesus wasn’t simply retelling a familiar story. He was redefining what His audience thought it meant to be God’s elect. Israel saw itself as the chosen people — and in a covenantal sense, they were. But Jesus pointed to a moment in their own Scriptures when God bypassed every “elect” widow in Israel and sent Elijah to a Gentile woman in Sidon. Not because Israel was erased. Not because God had changed His mind. But because God’s purpose is always larger than any one person, tribe, or nation. The widow becomes a living parable: Election is not about privilege. It is about purpose. And for the sake of that purpose — for the sake of mercy, continuity, and life — God holds back the darkness so that hope is never extinguished.
This is the same mercy seen in Eden, when access to the tree of life is restricted. The same mercy was shown after the flood, when God promised never to destroy all flesh again. The same mercy is seen in exile, when judgment does not become extinction. Jesus is not announcing a new policy. He is revealing a consistent divine posture. God allows humanity to feel the weight of its choices—but not to the point where life itself is extinguished. This distinction matters profoundly for our time.
Many modern fears about technology, war, climate, or artificial Intelligence assume one of two extremes:
- Either everything is under perfect control and nothing truly matters,
- Or everything is spiraling toward inevitable annihilation.
Jesus rejects both. He does not deny danger. He does not deny escalation. But He denies final annihilation. His words tell us that even when human power accelerates beyond wisdom—even when responsibility is surrendered—God’s mercy remains active, restraining history from its worst possible end. This is not a reason for passivity. It is a reason for seriousness because restraint does not mean approval. And mercy does not mean permission. The days are shortened not so that humanity can continue carelessly, but so that there is still time—for repentance, for wisdom, for stewardship, for love.
Jesus’ warning is therefore also an invitation. It invites us to live as those who know that power is real, danger is real, and responsibility is real—but that despair is not. To understand how this applies directly to our present moment with AI and accelerating systems, we must now turn to the modern form this ancient problem is taking.
AI, Acceleration, and the Ancient Problem of Abdication
When people speak with anxiety about artificial Intelligence, the images that often arise are dramatic: machines becoming conscious, systems rebelling against their creators, or technology “taking over” the world. These images capture attention, but they miss the deeper and more realistic concern. The greatest danger posed by AI is not rebellion. It is abdication. Artificial Intelligence does not possess will, desire, or moral awareness. It does not hunger for power or seek domination. AI does only what it is trained and permitted to do. It reflects human priorities with remarkable speed and efficiency.
This is precisely why it can be dangerous. AI accelerates decisions.
It removes friction.
It scales influence.
It executes goals without fatigue, hesitation, or moral unease.
None of these qualities are evil in themselves. In many contexts, they are genuinely helpful. But acceleration without wisdom has always been hazardous. Scripture warns us repeatedly that speed and power, when detached from responsibility, tend toward harm. This is not new. In the ancient world, the danger came through empires, weapons, and unchecked authority. Today, it comes through systems that operate faster than reflection and broader than accountability. AI does not introduce a new moral problem; it magnifies an old one. The question is not, “What will AI decide?” The question is, “What will humans stop deciding?” When responsibility is surrendered to systems—when judgment is outsourced, when moral weight is displaced—human beings slowly step back from the role they were created to occupy. This is the same movement we saw in Eden. Not defiance, but deferral. Not overt rebellion, but quiet withdrawal from responsibility.
AI is especially tempting because it promises relief.
Relief from complexity.
Relief from ambiguity.
Relief from the burden of choosing well.
But Scripture teaches us that bearing responsibility is not a curse—it is part of our calling. To be human is to be accountable, to weigh consequences, to love wisely, and to act with care for others. When AI is used to assist human judgment, it can serve that calling. When AI replaces human judgment, it erodes it.
This is why many of the most serious warnings about AI have come not from theologians, but from the very people building the systems themselves. Engineers and researchers have cautioned that the risk lies in unintended consequences—systems faithfully executing flawed goals, or acting at speeds that leave no room for correction.
Here again, Jesus’ words offer clarity. He does not say that an external enemy will destroy humanity. He says that unless days are shortened, no flesh would be saved. The danger arises from within human systems themselves—from what we create, accelerate, and fail to restrain. But Jesus also assures us that this trajectory is not allowed to run unchecked. History is not permitted to collapse into annihilation.
This does not mean that suffering will be avoided. It does not mean that mistakes will not be costly. It does not mean that technology cannot be misused or cause harm. It means that there is a limit—a boundary beyond which human self-destruction is not allowed to pass. That boundary does not excuse irresponsibility. It heightens it. Knowing that God restrains history should not make us careless. It should make us attentive. The space created by restraint is not for indifference; it is for wisdom. AI, then, becomes a test—not of machines, but of us.
Will we remain stewards, or will we surrender the weight of moral choice?
Will we treat efficiency as a substitute for wisdom?
Will we remember that power is meant to serve life, not replace it?
Scripture insists that these questions cannot be delegated. They belong to human beings made in God’s image, called to exercise authority with humility and care. And this brings us to a necessary clarification—what Jesus’ assurance of restraint does not mean, and why hope must never become an excuse.
Why This Is Not Fatalism—and Not Permission
When Scripture speaks of God restraining history, two opposite misunderstandings often arise The first is fatalism The second is permission Both distort the gospel Both weaken responsibility And both must be named clearly Fatalism says, “Everything is already decided, so nothing we do truly matters.” Permission says, “God will prevent the worst outcome, so we don’t need to worry too much about our choices.” Jesus affirms neither In fact, His words dismantle both.
When Jesus says that the days will be shortened so that life is preserved, He is not removing human responsibility He is creating space for it Restraint is not an eraser; it is a pause It is mercy making room for repentance, wisdom, and moral courage Throughout Scripture, divine restraint always increases human accountability The more God preserves, the more humanity is called to respond faithfully Consider the flood God limits destruction, then immediately gives humanity renewed responsibility: “Be fruitful… fill the earth.” Consider exile God limits judgment, then calls Israel to return, rebuild, and walk differently Consider the resurrection God defeats death, then sends disciples into the world—not to withdraw, but to bear witness.
Restraint is never the end of the story It is the beginning of renewed calling This is why Jesus’ warning must be read as both assurance and summons Assurance: history will not end in annihilation Summons: do not waste the time mercy provides Applied to our moment with artificialIntelligencee, this distinction matters deeply Some respond to AI anxiety by shrugging: “God is in control.” Others respond by panicking: “We are doomed.” Both responses surrender responsibility The first surrenders responsibility by neglect The second surrenders responsibility by despair Scripture calls for neither Instead, it calls for faithful vigilance.
Faithful vigilance means recognizing real danger without exaggeration It means refusing both hysteria and complacency It means remembering that tools are shaped by the hearts and intentions of those who wield them God’s restraint does not mean that harm will be minimal It means harm will not be total There is a difference History shows us that civilizations can suffer deeply, systems can collapse, and generations can bear the cost of unwise decisions—even while life itself is preserved This is why responsibility cannot be deferred.
AI cannot carry moral weight Systems cannot repent Algorithms cannot love Only human beings can do these things To treat restraint as permission is to repeat Eden in a new form—to assume that because boundaries exist, care is optional Scripture consistently warns against this logic Mercy is never an excuse It is a gift meant to lead us back to wisdom.
And to treat restraint as fatalism is to misunderstand God’s faithfulness God’s commitment to preserve life does not negate human agency It dignifies it We are not spectators in history We are participants The space created by shortened days is not for escape It is for stewardship This prepares us for the final movement of the essay—not a warning, but a way of living forward with hope that is neither naïve nor fearful.
Hope With Responsibility: Living Faithfully in an Age of Power
Hope, in the Christian tradition, is never wishful thinking It is not optimism detached from reality It is confidence grounded in God’s faithfulness and carried forward through responsible living The hope Scripture offers in moments of accelerating power is not the hope that danger is imaginary It is the hope that danger is not final From Eden to exile, from the flood to the cross, the Bible tells a consistent story: human beings are capable of remarkable creativity and devastating harm, often at the same time Power expands Wisdom lags Responsibility is tested And yet, history does not collapse into nothingness Not because humans always choose well—but because God refuses to abandon life to its worst possible end.
Jesus’ words about days being shortened are not a denial of human failure They are a declaration that failure does not get the last word Mercy intervenes—not to erase consequences, but to preserve the possibility of repentance, learning, and renewal This is where Christian hope lives: between realism and trust It acknowledges that artificialIntelligencee, like every powerful tool before it, can be used wisely or foolishly It acknowledges that systems can grow faster than conscience, and that responsibility can be quietly surrendered But it also insists that humanity is not doomed to repeat its failures endlessly without restraint.
Hope does not mean ignoring danger Hope means engaging it faithfully For elders, this may mean offering wisdom rather than fear—reminding younger generations that power has always required restraint, and that human dignity cannot be measured by efficiency or output For younger generations, it may mean learning to value reflection over speed, responsibility over convenience, and stewardship over control For all of us, it means remembering who we are.
We are not replaceable components in a system We are not data points to be optimized We are not spectators watching history unfold We are human beings—created in God’s image, entrusted with responsibility, and called to love wisely in every age ArtificialIntelligencee will continue to develop Systems will grow more capable The pace of change will not slow simply because we are uncomfortable But Scripture does not ask us to fear the future It asks us to inhabit it faithfully.
The mercy that restrains history is not an excuse to step back It is an invitation to step forward—with humility, courage, and care The days are shortened not so that we may escape responsibility, but so that we may finally learn to bear it well And that is not a cause for fear It is a call to hope—a hope that acts, watches, and loves, even in an age of power.
© 2026 by Samson Igbeare