Month: April 2026

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Is there such a thing as a Christian nation? I think the answer is yes—but it depends entirely on what we mean by the word nation.

In ordinary conversation, we use the word nation to mean a country. More particularly, when we say “the nation,” we usually mean the United States. Holy Scripture, however, uses the word in a very different way.

Throughout the Hebrew Scriptures, the word we translate as nation refers to a people—those who can be identified as members of a tribe or ethnic group, regardless of where they live or whether they are gathered under a single ruler. It does not mean a nation-state: a country with defined borders and a particular form of government. The nation-state, as we know it, is a relatively recent development in human history, beginning to emerge in the late Middle Ages.

When the Hebrew text speaks of “the nations,” it usually means all the peoples of the world who were not Israelites. These peoples were identified by ethnic identity, not by political borders. Moses’ father-in-law was a Midianite. David’s general Uriah was a Hittite. The Cushites lived south of Egypt. Among the Greeks, anyone who was not Greek was called a “barbarian”—simply meaning they belonged to the nations outside Greek culture. At the height of the Roman Empire, the army was largely drawn from Germanic tribes; yet there was no such place as Germany.

A turning point came with the Peace of Westphalia in 1648. After decades of devastating wars among dukes, kings, and emperors, these agreements helped establish the idea of defined territories under centralized rule. They did not create the modern nation-state overnight, but they marked an important step in a long development toward what we now recognize as nations.

These European states were “Christian” in the sense that Christianity was the official religion. Each ruler determined which form of Christianity would be practiced in his territory—usually Roman Catholic, Lutheran, or Calvinist. Individuals might be allowed to practice a different form of faith, but only under limited conditions and often at some personal risk.

Were these truly Christian nations? Not really. They were countries in which one form of Christianity was officially established. Whether the people—or their rulers—actually followed the way of Jesus Christ, or even understood what that meant, is another question entirely. They fought under the banner of Christ, but often against one another. They declared themselves Christian, yet persecuted those who were not, or who practiced Christianity differently. Church attendance might be required by law; whether it was an act of faithful worship was beside the point.

A similar pattern appeared in colonial America. In New England, Calvinism—of the Puritan and Pilgrim varieties—was dominant. In the South, the Church of England was established. Church attendance was often required, and taxes supported the church. Maryland became a haven for Roman Catholics. Parts of Pennsylvania welcomed Quakers. Rhode Island was home to Baptists. German Lutherans settled in New Jersey. Each colony set its own boundaries of tolerance, but none was especially hospitable to Jews or Muslims. Protestants distrusted Catholics, Catholics returned the favor, and nearly everyone found reason to harass the Quakers.

So, is there such a thing as a Christian nation?

Yes—but only in the biblical sense.

A Christian nation is not defined by geography, borders, or government. It is a people. It is those, wherever they live, who confess faith in Christ crucified and seek to walk in the way of the cross. They strive, however imperfectly, to love God with all that they are, and to love their neighbor as themselves. They are not bound together by ethnicity or citizenship, but by their life in Christ.

They may belong to this country or that one, but that citizenship is always secondary to who they are as members of this people.

The author of the First Letter of Peter puts it this way:
“You are a chosen race, a royal priesthood, a holy nation, God’s own people… Once you were not a people, but now you are God’s people.”

As John Howard Yoder observed in his 1984 book The Priestly Kingdom, the people of Jesus bear a moral and ethical responsibility within the societies where they live.

A Christian nation is the people of God following Jesus Christ—collectively known as the Church—residing in every country. Wherever they go, they are united in faith with others who follow the way of Christ, regardless of denomination.

They are a people who seek to encounter every person, and all creation, as made in the image of God and beloved by God. They invite all to join them. They exclude no one. They honor the ways in which God is at work in the lives of others, even when that work is named differently.

For all of that, they remain an imperfect people—well aware of their weaknesses and failings, both as individuals and as a community. Their life is one of continual correction and reform, as they seek to embrace all that God is still speaking.

The nation of Christians has nothing in common with today’s Christian nationalism. Nationalism is exclusive, xenophobic, and antagonistic toward any who differ. It is not a religious movement but an attempt to impose its own social norms through political power on an unwilling people.

Whatever it is, it is not Christian—no matter how boldly it claims the name.

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The United States is a secular nation in the sense that all persons are guaranteed the right to practice their religious faith, provided it does not violate the freedom or security of others. It is a guarantee challenged, sometimes violently, through prejudicial acts against some of the faithful—Jews, Muslims, adherents of indigenous religions, and, until relatively recently, Roman Catholics.

Recognition of such behavior as an offense against religious freedom, an assault on human dignity, and an expression of bigotry stands as a testament to an enduring American spirit unwilling to surrender to entrenched prejudice.

That same spirit must now stand firm against a bizarre distortion of the Christian faith promoted by persons in high office such as Pete Hegseth, JD Vance, and Donald Trump, who assert an intent to make a religion masquerading as Christian and biblical into the official religion of the nation. To claim it as Christian is an offense against God; to claim it as biblical is an insult to Holy Scripture.

The Christian Church has struggled long and hard to proclaim faith in one God, whom we experience as Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, made known through the life, teaching, death, and resurrection of Jesus Christ. To follow in the way of Jesus is to follow what he has taught and commanded. At the same time, others have proclaimed a different faith while calling it Christian, though it departs far from what God has revealed through the prophets and commanded by Jesus himself.

This was true in the earliest centuries of the Church and has recurred throughout history. The Church has wrestled with internal conflict and a recurring need for reform. Yet the good news of God in Christ Jesus—the nearness of the kingdom in ordinary life and the power of redeeming love—has not failed. It continues to lead the faithful into deeper and more profound ways of understanding and following the way of the cross.

The Church—the assembly of all faithful Christians—is once again called to boldness in Christ, to profess the faith in word and deed in ways that clearly distinguish it from corrupt distortions now being advanced as a national religion.

How?

Drawing from my own tradition’s baptismal covenant, I offer the following. It is consistent with—if not identical to—the baptismal commitments proclaimed across the one holy catholic and apostolic Church:

• Be steadfast in worship and fellowship with other Christians; observe the apostles’ teaching; share in the holy food and drink of new and unending life in Holy Communion.
• Persevere in resisting evil; whenever one falls, repent and return to the Lord.
• Proclaim by word and example in daily life the good news of God in Christ.
• Seek and serve Christ in all persons, loving one’s neighbor as oneself—including the stranger, the alien, and those we dislike or distrust.
• Strive for justice and peace among all people, and respect the dignity of every human being.Respect the dignity of all creation and seek to live in harmony with it.

To follow Jesus in this way draws a wide circle, within which a multitude of faithful lives may be lived according to differing abilities and circumstances. Uniformity is not required. Unity in following the way of the cross is. In that unity in diversity, the Christian faith is most truly proclaimed.

It is what we are called to do—individually and collectively—with quiet confidence whenever and wherever the opportunity presents itself.

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My previous column expressed hope that the nation may be at a turning point—a moment when the public is more prepared to renew its commitment to our founding ideals. However important those ideals are—and I believe they are very important—they are not, by themselves, sufficient to energize support from the large portion of the population living paycheck to paycheck, wondering whether there will even be a next paycheck.

Not everyone living paycheck to paycheck is low-income. It is a condition of anxiety that stretches from those at the very lowest income levels well into the middle class. What unites them is uncertainty about their economic future.

If the hope of renewed national commitment to American ideals is to become reality, influential voices in public life must first address the fundamental conditions that create obstacles to economic security and deepen anxiety among those who feel their concerns are neither recognized nor taken seriously. People want to believe that housing, food, and the basic necessities of a decent life are available to them as a matter of right, earned through their labor.

The conviction that next year will bring greater opportunity, more discretionary income, and some measure of upward mobility lies at the heart of the American dream. Whether that dream is more myth than reality is beside the point. It drives emotional response. Facts, however important, are often peripheral.

A renewed commitment to democratic ideals can be generated only when public leaders begin here. Policy white papers are not the place to start.

The first step is to listen—carefully—and to respond in ways that demonstrate that anxious and insecure voices have been heard. Those feelings may or may not align with the facts, but they are real, and that reality must be acknowledged. The second step is to ask what people believe should be done. The answers will be varied, even contradictory. The third step is to ensure those voices are shared in ways that encourage mutual understanding and reduce the tendency of groups to turn against one another.

Out of that process, influential voices can begin to articulate practical steps capable of improving lives. At that moment—and not before—it becomes possible to reintroduce the essential importance of democratic ideals. That is how progress toward achieving them is made.

The New Deal, now nearly a century behind us, cannot serve as a blueprint for our time. But it does illustrate how this process can work at its best. Even then, it did not produce perfection. It produced something workable—a measure of national unity, always contested by those who felt threatened by it. That remains the nature of the task before us. The goal is not perfection. It is something that works.

I do not pretend to have a ready framework for applying this process to the conditions of our own time. But the process itself is not new. It is very old. “A chicken in every pot,” often attributed to Henry IV of France, reflects a ruler’s recognition that support from the peasant class depended on meeting the needs people actually experience. Whether he succeeded is open to debate, although he did much through investment in public infrastructure and by limiting conflict between Catholics and Huguenots. What matters is that he understood the principle.

We no longer speak of peasants. We speak of the working class. In 1949, W. Lloyd Warner published Social Class in America, describing a layered structure ranging from the lower-lower class to the lower middle class, middle-middle class, upper middle class, and on to the upper classes. His categories were largely economic, with some attention to lifestyle. Contemporary sociology has moved in more complex directions, especially in recognizing the impact of race and ethnicity on economic and social opportunity.

Even so, there is something useful in Warner’s approach. It avoids the easy distinction between blue-collar and white-collar work and allows us to recognize a simple truth: anyone working for wages, salary, or commission belongs, in one sense, to the working class.

This brief essay does not offer a conclusion. It offers an invitation—for each reader to consider what conclusions ought to be drawn, and why.

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I am beginning to place greater emphasis on publishing through Substack. While I will continue to post the same material on WordPress for the foreseeable future, Substack allows me to reach a wider audience interested in the relationship between religion and public policy—written from the perspective of an Episcopal priest with a long history of engagement in public policy issues.

The Bible’s Book of Judges tells the story of Israel’s struggle to reoccupy Canaan, the land of its origin, already inhabited by other peoples of different tribes and ethnicities. The historical veracity of Judges may be debated, but not its brutal honesty. It describes a violent, unstable time in which a people committed—at least in principle—to the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob struggled to survive, to settle, and to remain faithful.

Whatever unity the Israelites imagined they possessed quickly fractured. The tribes competed with one another for land, political influence, and competing understandings of what it meant to be a people bound to one God. The pattern is unmistakable: periods of military success and economic prosperity led almost immediately to religious compromise. The worship of the God of their ancestors was diluted by the adoption of local pagan practices. At the same time, they abandoned the moral law given through Moses—the very law meant to shape a just and stable society.

It should have surprised no one that such behavior led to predictable consequences: social disintegration, external threat, and at times near annihilation. Repeatedly, the text tells us that leaders—“judges”—were raised up to call the people back, to restore order, and to lead them into a measure of renewed fidelity to God. It was a repetitive cycle: renewal followed by backsliding into disaster, and renewal again.

The era of the judges lasted roughly three centuries—not so different from our own national experience. Their story has something unsettling to say about us.

The European settlement of what became the United States followed a strikingly similar pattern. Those who came were united as Englishmen but not unified in purpose. Some sought religious freedom—often for themselves, not for others. Some came in search of wealth. Others fled poverty and lack of opportunity. Most claimed to be Christian, professing the way of Jesus, but their conduct often betrayed those claims.

Moreover—and this cannot be ignored—the land was already occupied. Indigenous peoples had lived here for thousands of years. It did not take long for conflict to erupt. European settlers expanded, taking more land; native populations resisted, trying to hold what was theirs. What followed was a long, uneven process of conquest, punctuated by brief periods of relative peace and stability. Those periods never lasted. They gave way to war, economic disruption, and social upheaval.

The ideals on which the nation was eventually founded—however noble—were repeatedly undermined by self-interest, rivalry, and the pursuit of power.

At moments of crisis, something akin to the biblical “judge” emerged—not in title, but in function. Figures such as George Washington, Abraham Lincoln, Theodore Roosevelt, and Franklin D. Roosevelt helped redirect the nation toward its professed ideals. Each achieved something real, but each also worked within limits. None broke the cycle.

Others, less celebrated or less successful, led the nation toward division and decline. Yet even then, there has been a recurring pattern: when circumstances grow dire enough, the nation seems—almost instinctively—to recover some measure of clarity and to move again, however imperfectly, toward its ideals. And then, just as predictably, complacency returns.

Meanwhile, the cost has been borne disproportionately by those pushed aside. Indigenous peoples were not only dispossessed of land but stripped, as much as possible, of cultural identity and dignity. The same is true of enslaved Africans and their descendants, and of immigrants from beyond northern Europe, often treated with suspicion and contempt. In each case, the nation deprived itself of the very gifts—cultural, intellectual, moral—these peoples might have contributed to a more just and harmonious society.

It is not a simple story. It would be wrong to accuse European settlers and their descendants of being less moral than others. The cycles in American history are not so very different from those in the time of Judges, and each cycle has led to significant improvements benefiting many. Moreover, the American experience has demonstrated the resilient power of democracy to improve conditions of life for all. There is much to be proud of—without denying historical truth.

Over time, the United States has become more integrated—culturally and racially—despite persistent resistance. Leadership has arisen from every corner of this diverse population. There are signs, even now, of a growing recognition that the contributions of Indigenous peoples, enslaved and formerly enslaved persons, and immigrants from around the world are not peripheral but essential to the American story.

Which raises a question.

If we are again at a turning point—and it is difficult to argue otherwise—where will the next “judges” come from?

They are unlikely to be singular figures in the mold of Washington or Lincoln. They may not even hold political office. More likely, they will be voices—plural—calling the nation back to its senses, insisting its ideals be made real in ordinary life. Only then can presidents and Congress do the hard work of governance with the consent and moral energy of the people.

The decisive leadership we need will not come primarily from the political arena. It will come from another kind of pulpit—from those willing to speak with moral clarity, to name failure without euphemism, and to call the nation, once again, to account.

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Will, willing, and willfulness are words that speak of want, desire, and intent—often with a stubborn determination to see those desires satisfied.

Members of state legislatures and Congress frequently insist that the will of the people is being ignored by their opponents. National pollsters seldom claim they can truly measure such a thing, but they do publish results that come close to suggesting it. Political movements of nearly every stripe have claimed to represent it. The anti-tax Tea Party movement and MAGA are recent examples in American history, but there have been many predecessors.

To be blunt, there is no such thing as the will of the people. As a catchphrase, its primary purpose is to claim overwhelming support for something often held by a relatively small minority. It is a good rule of thumb to be suspicious of anyone who claims to know or represent it.

However, there are wills of peoples. That is to say, there are wants and desires shared in common by enough individuals, engaged in communication with one another, to create a bond of determination to see those desires realized in the broader society. If groups of like-minded people—people who share similar wants and aims—can generate a critical mass, they can create momentum with more power to influence public policy than any single elected official.

It does not happen often. I suspect it requires a “tipping point,” to borrow a phrase from Malcolm Gladwell. We saw something like that in the civil rights and anti-war movements of the 1960s. Those movements also demonstrated that, as powerful and far-reaching as they can be, they never represent a universal will. Each was bitterly opposed by others that could not generate comparable momentum but were effective in rear-guard resistance. Indeed, those conflicts continue to this day.

An argumentative polity, as Rowan Williams has said, is necessary for the survival of a healthy democracy. I believe he is right—with some caveats. An argumentative polity made up of peoples generating movements of considerable momentum, each expressing a shared will, can sustain a society in which multiple movements engage in good-faith argument. In doing so, they influence decisions that benefit the whole.

The difficulty, of course, is that not every movement desires to engage in good-faith argument for the common good. Some demand that they—and they alone—be the only voice with real influence.

Movements unwilling to participate in good faith within an argumentative polity can sometimes gain access to high office, as we have seen in Hungary under Viktor Orbán and, sadly, in the United States under Donald Trump. In our case, Trump and his most loyal advisors were able to draw on remnants of the Tea Party movement to create MAGA and convince enough voters to return him to office. They did so by portraying the failures of his first term as successes, and by casting the economic achievements of the Biden administration as disaster.

It was chicanery—but chicanery often works. Bernie Madoff demonstrated that even sophisticated investors can be deceived, and Donald Trump demonstrated that fantastical promises, wrapped in conviction and repetition, can deceive enough to influence an election—if only narrowly.

The deeper problem is this: to maintain the illusion, movements such as MAGA must prevent other voices from being heard. They must deny the very functioning of an argumentative polity grounded in good faith among diverse peoples.

For 250 years, the American experiment has depended on such good-faith argument, and on the determination of groups representing the wills of their peoples to speak and be heard. That tradition reveals a crucial weakness in any attempt to establish durable authoritarian rule. People of good faith are relearning lessons from the mid-twentieth century about the power and purpose of vigorous, open, and honest public debate—and about the necessity of forming coalitions that cross the social and economic divisions that so often separate us.

In my judgment, Martin Luther King Jr. remains the most compelling example of how the wills of peoples can be gathered into a powerful, cooperative movement. Others have tried, but few have achieved the necessary critical mass or recognized the decisive moment. For King, those moments included Selma and the assassination of John F. Kennedy.

Whether we are now approaching tipping points of similar magnitude is an open question. Yet it does seem that growing opposition to the Trump and MAGA era is beginning to generate a comparable critical mass. It would help to have several voices capable of capturing the imagination of a broader spectrum of American society. But to do so, they must be influential enough to breach the fortified walls of our fragmented media landscape.

That is not impossible—but it will require more than a single Martin Luther King Jr. There must be several, each willing to support the others.

Moreover, the American public must become more aware of the danger before us. We are not drifting into authoritarianism—we are moving toward it at speed.

That may be our tipping point.

I wrote this piece about a year and a half ago to summarize discussions of an informal committee made up of two Christian clergy, a rabbi, and an ethicist, asked to offer counsel to several members of the William and Mary Law School faculty on questions about the relationship of artificial intelligence to morality and the legal system. Given the current conversation about artificial intelligence, its potential good and equally potential harmful effects on American society—and already visible in it—I decided to publish this on Country Parson in a slightly edited format. It is unusually long for a Substack, but if this is a subject of interest to you, I think you will find it helpful.

PART ONE

A Theological Perspective

As Jewish and Christian theologians, we are compelled to recognize and honor the sacredness of humanity created in “the image of God.” However A.I. develops and is used, it must not undermine what it means to be human. Moreover, we live in the American context of Western civilization, and it is to that reality that we offer the following.

Preface

News, articles, and rumors about A.I. flood every corner of the media world. Products and services are advertised as infused with the latest in A.I. technology. Its promises of an exciting future are reflected in a short passage from the recent book by George Stephanopoulos, The Situation Room. The purpose of the White House Situation Room is to sift incoming information from all sources to produce briefings needed by the President and presidential staff.

Toward the end of the book, Stephanopoulos reports an observation from Google’s CEO: that dozens of analysts looking through data is a waste of human talent when computers could be programmed to do it faster and cheaper. All it would take is the right algorithm to pick up unusual deviations from routine background chatter. Today’s advances in AI would enable the computer to learn and adjust on its own, faster and more accurately than error-prone humans. Google may not be the most reliable source of expert advice, given their current problems with publicly available AI tools, but it is worth thinking about.

What this idea fails to consider is that much of what analysts do is based on intuition—a sense that something is different—a hunch grounded in knowledge of history and conditions not included in the data flowing into the Situation Room. As an added factor, analysts check each other through conversation about what they think and why they think it, which will always involve an element of moral judgment. They are also able to adjust quickly to new requests from White House staff that are often far outside the norm. It is an organic process—analog, if you will—that involves constructive relationships between independent persons in a way that computers cannot, at least not now.

Is the organic human approach less accurate and efficient than a computer-based AI approach? It is not one against the other. AI can sift through enormous amounts of data in a short time, looking for anomalies. The slower, organic process of human analysts will ferret out nuances outside the realm of algorithms and the limitations of machine learning. Moreover, what is true for the Situation Room is true for everyday life in every organization: public sector, private sector, nonprofit, and social.

Artificial intelligence, for all its potential for good, cannot replace human wisdom, creativity, imagination, and intuitive problem solving. What humans can do, and have done for millennia, is to imagine the unasked question and postulate possible answers based in part on what is thought to be good and right. That is a unique property of humanity that computers can only imitate superficially.

This is not to dismiss the potential value of AI. In time it will be able to instruct actions that replace laborious and error-prone work now done by computer-assisted humans. AI currently available to the public appears to be used more for entertainment or as a kind of toy than anything else. As with any such tool, people are experimenting with it in ways that produce silly, outlandish, and sometimes dangerous outcomes. Hackers have learned how to manipulate its internal systems to produce results no one expected or wanted. It will take time for AI to become a reliable, useful tool for the public. In the meantime, governments, universities, and corporations are exploring uses not available to the public. With fingers crossed, we can hope for the best and remain skeptically vigilant.

Trying to put ethical limits on AI may seem like a pointless exercise because it is difficult to define AI itself. Current versions—large language models and machine learning systems—are equivalent to Model Ts and Wright Brothers’ airplanes. Governments, universities, and industry are in a race to bring into reality dreams of self-aware systems able to operate with minimal, if any, human supervision. Theologians and ethicists are left in the bewildering dust of technical jargon expressed in unfamiliar languages.

In Defense of Being Human

We need clarity about what it means to be fully human if AI is to be developed for the benefit of humanity and to protect what it means to be human. Of course, it means different things to different people depending on religious faith, ethical belief, social norms, status, and cultural heritage. Possible commonalities across cultures may include the following.

For me to be fully human, the other must be able to be fully human. The other may be my most beloved or my least trusted. The other may be a stranger, even an alien presence. To be fully human also means to think, create, struggle, succeed, fail, laugh, cry, wonder, and doubt. In like manner, for me to prosper, others must be able to prosper.

No matter how good, all humans are prone to selfishness, greed, desire for power and position, vengefulness, and violence. There is likely a wide distribution between the best and worst of us, but most consider themselves somewhere in the middle. Finally, we are not always rational in our moral decisions. The effort would be exhausting. Instead, we rely on habits of the heart learned from childhood and experience, often ignoring pitfalls and remaining oblivious to consequences we later call unintended. Godly counsel is often relegated to occasional thought or mistaken for customary social norms. Therefore, I repeat: AI cannot be expected to be more moral than we are.

Artificial Intelligence and Moral Questions

AI is unlike any other technology that has changed the world in dramatic ways. Consider the printing press, gunpowder, railroads, commercial electricity, radio, and countless other inventions. Each was a tool, unable to make decisions on its own and entirely subject to human use. AI, on the other hand, is being developed to ask and answer moral or ethical questions for itself: “Should I do this?” and “How should I do it?” Questions that begin with should are moral questions, implying uncertainty about the right thing to do.

What values determine good from bad, right from wrong? When conditions require a choice between competing goods or competing evils, some goods must be abandoned or some evils accepted. These questions trouble human beings deeply and keep philosophers in business. They are precisely the kinds of questions developers intend to make AI capable of resolving without human direction.

Because AI is designed to communicate in human-like ways, it is likely to answer moral questions posed by humans—or even suggest what humans should do without being asked. In that sense, humans risk becoming tools used by AI at its discretion—a complete reversal of the relationship that has governed every other technology.

Some anticipate that AI will become a kind of oracle, offering immediate and authoritative answers to life’s questions. If humans believe they can create an AI more morally perfect than themselves, they are profoundly mistaken. An AI created in humanity’s image cannot be other than fundamentally flawed. Paul Bloom, writing in the November 2023 New Yorker, asked, “How moral can AI really be?” His answer was: not much more than it is now. He wondered whether it would take God himself to convince people what the rules should be. As Jewish and Christian theologians, we believe God has already done that, in ways discernible through deep engagement with scripture and tradition.

For instance, the following is based on the Ten Commandments, which are an essential part of the foundation of Jewish and Christian morality.

First, beware of making AI into an idol.

AI cannot be allowed to undermine what it means to be fully human.

Developers must always prioritize the good of humanity over all other measures of utility.

Probabilities of “unintentional consequences” must be made public.

There must be regular pauses in development to allow society to absorb and assess it.

The wisdom of the ages must serve as both guide and guard.

AI cannot be used to make decisions about intentional killing.

AI must not endanger the integrity of human relationships.

AI cannot be used to appropriate resources for those who have no moral right to them.

AI cannot be used to privilege some at the expense of others.

To put them in terms more congenial to lawyers:

Lawyers engaged with AI-related questions must demand of its creators an assessment of its benefits for the good of the other.
They must examine possible and probable effects that undermine full humanity.
They must seek to unveil the likelihood of “unintended” consequences.
They must advocate for the good of humanity, not the good of AI.
Building on the Ten Commandments, they must challenge anything that implies AI is an idol.
They must seek periodic pauses in development to allow society to assess and respond.
They shall seek guidance from the wisdom of the ages.
They shall oppose murder as an outcome of AI applications.
They shall seek to protect the integrity of human relationships.
They shall oppose any use of AI that appropriates for some that to which they have no moral right.
They shall demand full transparency from AI developers and users.
They shall oppose any use that privileges some at the expense of others.

Institutions are essentially amoral. Whatever ethics or morality they project comes from the people in ever-changing leadership positions. That is true of companies, nonprofits, and governments at every level. Our democratic republic, with its system of checks and balances—when it works as intended—creates the best chance for government to act in “our best interests,” not merely “my best interest.”

The relationship between ethics or morality and our best interests is simple. For something to be ethical or moral, it must at least be concerned with the good of the other. If the good of the self or the institution is the only goal, then it is likely to generate unethical or immoral acts.

Shannon Vallor’s 2016 book, Technology and the Virtues, offers a different perspective, one not grounded in the Jewish and Christian theology of the committee.

Vallor attempts something similar by drawing on the ethics of Aristotle, Confucius, and Buddhism, which she groups under the broad heading of “virtue ethics.” Aristotle had much to say about virtue and is best known for four: prudence, temperance, justice, and courage. Each lies along a continuum, the extremes of which are destructive both to the individual and to the polis. The virtuous person strives for the “golden mean.”

I am less certain about cardinal virtues in Confucian thought, but Confucius emphasized deep learning of right ways in order to assure an optimal ordering of society. Buddhism is more complex. The following excerpt may be helpful, summarizing the Four Noble Truths:

Now this, bhikkhus, is the noble truth of suffering: birth is suffering, aging is suffering, illness is suffering, death is suffering; union with what is displeasing is suffering; separation from what is pleasing is suffering; not to get what one wants is suffering; in brief, the five aggregates subject to clinging are suffering.

Now this, bhikkhus, is the noble truth of the origin of suffering: it is this craving (taṇhā, “thirst”) which leads to re-becoming, accompanied by delight and lust, seeking delight here and there; that is, craving for sensual pleasures, craving for becoming, craving for disbecoming.

Now this, bhikkhus, is the noble truth of the cessation of suffering: it is the remainderless fading away and cessation of that same craving, the giving up and relinquishing of it, freedom from it, non-reliance on it.

Now this, bhikkhus, is the noble truth of the way leading to the cessation of suffering: it is this noble eightfold path; that is, right view, right intention, right speech, right action, right livelihood, right effort, right mindfulness, right concentration.

What struck me about all three is how readily they can be placed alongside Maslow’s hierarchy of needs. In the mid-twentieth century, Maslow proposed a simple list—not originally a pyramid—suggesting that lower-level needs must be met before higher-level needs can be meaningfully pursued. Reaching a higher level may be a goal, but there is no guarantee of remaining there.

Maslow has been criticized for deriving his hierarchy from observation rather than rigorous testing. That criticism is fair. At the same time, the model has endured. As a reminder, the levels are:

• Physiological (food, shelter, clothing)
• Safety and security of person and possessions
• Love (filial) and belonging
• Esteem (akin to Aristotle’s glory or modern success)
• Self-actualization

Buddhism assigns little ultimate value to these needs, except perhaps in its understanding of self-actualization. Lower-level needs may have practical utility, but attachment to them traps one in the cycle of suffering and rebirth.

Confucius and Aristotle, by contrast, place high value on lower-level needs. A free and educated man cannot be virtuous without them. Self-actualization, as Maslow describes it, is largely absent. To achieve esteem or glory is, in effect, to reach life’s apex. Those lacking material resources or social standing are unlikely to be esteemed or honored.

American materialism, expressed through the idea of the American Dream, tends toward Aristotle. The belief that elite universities produce elite leaders for the broader society reflects something closer to Confucian assumptions.

If our committee’s discussions are centered on preserving and enhancing what it means to be fully human while making optimal use of AI, then Vallor’s approach may suggest the following.

To be fully human in secular America requires that society be structured so that every person has an equitable opportunity to be adequately housed, clothed, and fed; to enjoy security of person and possessions; to be loved and engaged in a healthy social life; and to be recognized for achieving success in their endeavors. I am less certain that American society has a clear understanding of what self-actualization might mean, or whether it is worth pursuing.

Aristotle, Confucius, and Maslow would all agree that these needs must be met through effort. They lose moral or virtuous significance if detached from the work required to attain them. Therefore, AI must be a tool to supplement and assist, not replace, the work human beings need to do in order to feel they have earned what they have achieved.

Obviously, the definition of work will change. Whatever that change entails, it must continue to involve both physical and intellectual labor.

I have no idea what that will mean for the legal system.

Speaking for myself, I do hope it means that books and other printed materials do not disappear. Cuneiform on clay tablets, ink on parchment, and bound books have outlived countless technologies. They may well outlast computer chips and software platforms that seem to die almost as quickly as they are born.

I also hope that AI does not eliminate risk too thoroughly. To strive in the face of possible failure is part of what gives effort its meaning. The old trope—that trust fund beneficiaries become idle and socially unproductive—may be overstated, but it carries enough truth to serve as a warning.

I recently listened to a seven-year-old lecture by Rowan Williams at Keele University (North Stafforshire, U.K.) in which he described elements of democracy that cannot be surrendered without losing democracy altogether. Among other things, he argued that the executive in Washington, D.C., was doing its best to dismantle the integrity of other governmental institutions so the executive would be the only one remaining. The president at the time was Donald Trump in his first term, and preserving and strengthening American democracy was not his intent. I have reflected on the lecture for several days and offer the following.

Given Mr. Trump’s notorious ignorance of anything not of immediate benefit to him, it is likely others encouraged his belief that the presidency could function as a form of authoritarian rule, avoiding the difficulties of messy democratic processes.

A healthy democracy, Williams observed, is an argumentative democracy—one in which voices are heard and citizens listen as they work toward acceptable agreements about what is best for the nation. A healthy democracy requires the party in power to understand its responsibility for the well-being of those not in power. Even highly partisan agendas must take into account not only how they may improve conditions for supporters, but also whether they create difficulties or injustices for others.

Because no party or coalition remains in power for more than a season, it is in its own interest to govern with this awareness, recognizing its turn at being out of power will surely come.

If an argumentative polity is essential to a healthy democracy, then even the most strongly held opinions must give due respect to informed judgment and to the need for the uninformed to become informed so they can offer their own. Those most certain they are right and others wrong must remember they know only in part, and even firm convictions must remain, in some measure, provisional. The current administration has made clear it has little interest in such discipline—if it cannot have its own way, no one will get anything. Those not in power, including minorities of every kind, are treated as irrelevant to a vision of America governed by a single executive for the benefit of supporters.

Public voices often appeal to the “will of the people” as a central truth to be heard and obeyed. This is a mistake. “The will of the people” does not exist as a coherent reality. The MAGA movement, for instance, claims to speak for it, but speaks only for itself. Despite its dominance of public attention, it remains one faction among many, and not the largest. Public polling is often presented as revealing the will of the people, but it cannot do so. At best, it offers a snapshot of opinion—some informed, much not—at a given moment. It may serve limited purposes, but tells us nothing about the quality of those opinions. Much of the public remains poorly informed about matters beyond daily concerns. Opinions are often shaped by prejudice, rumor, social circles, and unexamined trust in preferred news sources.

A particularly dangerous misuse of this idea is the belief that a majority constitutes a mandate to which minorities must submit without objection—the “tyranny of the majority.” It is frequently invoked during campaigns and conveniently forgotten afterward, yet can become political reality when a legislature is indifferent to the well-being of those outside its majority. Presidents, too, have appealed to it from the bully pulpit when approval ratings creep above fifty percent.

The unreliable “will of the people” is one reason I am not a fan of referenda on state ballots. Difficult issues require responsible deliberation—what Williams would call an argumentative polity—not the blunt instrument of mass voting driven by expensive and emotionally manipulative campaigns. Referenda are too often decided by those who can afford the most persuasive advertising, appealing to emotion while skirting serious examination of consequences.

All of this leads to a single conclusion: those in power must remain keenly aware of their moral responsibility to protect the well-being of those who are not. Critically important to any democracy is the integrity of institutions that provide checks and balances, uphold the rule of law, and remind us what is legal is not always what is moral or just. An administration determined to weaken or dismantle those institutions poses a direct threat to democracy. The consequences are neither unknown nor speculative. A nation abandoning these safeguards ceases to be a credible leader among free societies. It risks becoming a place marked not by justice and prosperity, but by want, oppression, and fear.

We have entered the season of Easter, following our celebratory remembrance of Christ’s resurrection and his bodily appearances to many. During this season, our liturgy invites us to explore how those first post-resurrection Christians understood what had happened, how it shaped their lives, and how communities of faith took root and spread throughout the Roman Empire in just a few decades. They became the Body of Christ—the Church. In the paragraphs that follow, I want to take a few moments to explore what that means for us in our own day.

To be a Christian is to be part of the Body of Christ—the Church—which is not a denomination or a collection of denominations, but the whole number of all persons doing their best to be disciples of Jesus, following him on the way of the cross.

That is a true statement, but it needs clarification.

First, the word discipleship. A disciple is a student, a learner—someone committed to moving beyond Sunday school stories toward a more mature understanding of what it means to be a Christian. There is no end to such learning. Christ always has something new to teach. God is always speaking. Creation itself is still underway. As Peter Gomes put it in The Good Book, the words of Holy Scripture remain the same, but our ability to understand them is always changing.

Disciples resist the temptation to settle into a single, fixed way of understanding the faith. They remain open, attentive, and ready to listen for where God is leading them next.

Following Jesus on the way of the cross means walking with the certainty that whatever dangers or obstacles we encounter, the resurrection is always on the other side. We can say with confidence that the way of the cross is the way of life and peace—not a way, but the way.

And yet, the way of the cross is not walked alone. There is an old spiritual about walking a lonely road by oneself. It is wrong. The cross is walked in community, with all the members of the Body of Christ, and in companionship with the persistent, substantial presence of the Holy Spirit. The Twenty-third Psalm reminds us that even in the valley of the shadow of death, God prepares a table—overflowing—not only for us, but also for our enemies. The valley is not a dead end. We walk through it into greater light.

The Body of Christ cannot be an assembly of individuals each claiming a private and exclusive relationship with Jesus, even if they are content to gather with others making the same claim. The Body cannot function—indeed, cannot exist—unless each member does its part to sustain and nourish the whole. It is a truism: there is no such thing as an individual Christian. We are called to live in community, however difficult that may be.

It must grieve the Lord when denominational leaders condemn others as dishonoring the Body, when in fact they may be discerning something new that will, in time, strengthen and deepen the life of the whole Church.

That said, there is reason for caution. The Church has often been beset by those who claim to follow Christ while engaging in words and actions that violate everything he taught and died for. Prudence is necessary. But it is one thing to be cautious; it is another to condemn simply because the unfamiliar feels uncomfortable.

The way of the cross is grounded in what Jesus taught, demonstrated in what he did, and commanded us to continue doing in his name. His authority surpasses every other authority, and nothing stands above it. It is especially tempting to assume that the social and political norms with which we are most comfortable are consistent with the way of the cross. Too often, we have allowed them to dictate what Jesus meant. That can never be the case. It must always be the other way around. Every age and every culture stands under the authority of Jesus Christ.

Finally, the way of the cross is marked by doubt as well as conviction. We can know some things with certainty, but never all things. There is always more. As Paul reminds us, in this life we know only in part. We must learn to live with that—and to trust that it is enough for those who are truly disciples, following Jesus on the way of the cross.

A group of us were discussing the resurrection when my friend Dorothy said, “The problem with Jesus is that he would not stay in his cage.” I hadn’t heard it put quite that way before, but she was right. He was dead—truly dead—and his body was sealed in a cave, blocked by a large stone and guarded by soldiers. But Jesus simply refused to stay in his cage.

It was his lifelong practice. He would not stay in Bethlehem. He would not stay in Egypt. He would not stay in Nazareth. He would not stay in Galilee or Judea. He would not stay dead. And, perhaps most surprising of all, he would not stay here—at least not in the form of God incarnate in Jesus.

He was always going where he was not supposed to go, among people he was not supposed to be with. His time was spent on the road, walking from village to village. He ventured into the land of the Phoenicians, into the territory of Hellenistic pagans, into the region of the detested Samaritans. He attended to the needs of the poor, the broken, and the sick. He restored them to wholeness, gave them new life, and set them again in right relationship with God—often ignoring the demands of the temple and its rituals because his authority was greater..

He could not be contained in any box nor constrained in any cage. The problem with Jesus is that he would not stay in his cage. It is as true today as it was then. We are inclined, each of us, to put Jesus in a box or lock him in a cage that satisfies our need to keep him where we can find him, to limit him to our expectations of who he should be. But he cannot be contained.

We do not come to Jesus. He comes to us. When we reach up to touch him, he is not there, because he is near at hand already reaching out to save us from ourselves. Beware of anyone who tells you exactly who Jesus is, exactly what he demands, or exactly what it means to follow him. He will not stay in the box or cage they have constructed. It is a wondrous and glorious mystery we are called to live into, not solve.

The incarnate Jesus is no longer with us. He is risen. But Jesus, the risen Christ, is with us as surely as if he were standing beside us, guiding and empowering the continuing work of healing and reconciliation—a work in which we who follow him are invited to participate, with whatever gifts we have to offer, however small they may seem.