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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.

The news and our public discourse are filled with talk of enemies, real or imagined. There seems no end to the violence some are willing to rain down on them, as if those enemies were solely responsible for all their troubles and disappointments. Few would put it quite so plainly, but the underlying message is unmistakable. Jesus, however, commands his followers to love their enemies—a command we resist, in part because we mistake love for a warm, affectionate feeling. For Jesus, loving one’s enemies has far more to do with what we think and how we act. In Holy Scripture, he demonstrates what such love looks like, most notably in his encounters with Samaritans. The accounts are few but significant, and it should not go unnoticed that the early Christian church found some of its first footing in Samaria. With that in mind, let us take a closer look at the Samaritans.

Samaritans appear frequently in the Bible, especially in the New Testament, where they seem to be relatively benign neighbors of Judea—yet they are despised and distrusted. We know the stories: the Good Samaritan, the Samaritan woman at the well, and the Samaritan leper who returned to give thanks while the others went on to the temple for the required purification rituals. What was it about the Samaritans that so offended the Jews that they were held in such contempt? In Luke’s Gospel, James and John even offer to call down fire on a Samaritan village that refused to receive Jesus—an indication of the depth of that hostility.

Who, then, were the Samaritans? When the Assyrian Empire destroyed the northern kingdom of Israel, it exiled much of the upper class, leaving behind primarily the poorest of the population. The region was repopulated with peoples from other conquered nations, and over generations these groups intermarried, forming what came to be known as the Samaritans. Coming from different places, with different gods and languages, they gradually adopted the local religion and language. What emerged was a form of Judaism—very similar to that practiced in Judea, but not quite the same.

When exiled Jewish leaders were later permitted to return to Jerusalem to rebuild the temple and the city, the Samaritans actively opposed them and nearly halted the entire project. During the succeeding wars and conflicts, the Samaritans often sided with Judah’s enemies, including the Greeks and later the Romans. When full-scale war broke out between Judea and its Roman occupiers in 66 CE, culminating in the destruction of the temple in 70 CE, the Samaritans stood aside, at times giving tacit support to Rome.

This history explains a great deal about why the Samaritans were so deeply resented—and why it would have seemed improbable, even offensive, for Jesus to use them as examples of what it means both to love one’s enemies and to be loved by them.

It is a lesson we are in desperate need of relearning. We cannot be naïve about the real dangers posed by peoples and nations intent on doing harm to Western civilization in general and to the United States in particular. Nevertheless, Christians are obligated to encourage forms of engagement that de-escalate conflict and seek a more constructive path forward—firm in principle, but without resorting to hatred or fear.

Christians are about to enter Holy Week, the period between Palm Sunday and Good Friday when we prepare for the glorious celebration of Easter. It is a fitting time to set aside our egos and allow God’s Holy Spirit to fill that space with life-giving renewal and restoration.

That is my introduction to a personal reflection on the unimportance of being recognized.

I may be wrong, but I think every one of us wants our work to be seen as important and our presence valued by others. I know I do. Social media has amplified that desire into something relentless. We are invited—almost compelled—to be followed, praised, and “liked” by as many people as possible. Analytics allow us to check our status minute by minute, measuring success or failure by numbers of clicks and comments.

It is, of course, a rather silly enterprise. These metrics measure very little. Random clicks of a mouse are no true measure of our worth—either to ourselves or to others. Yet they carry the illusion of meaning, and that illusion has real power.

The desire for recognition is as old as humanity itself, and it has always been a stumbling block to emotional and spiritual health. What social media has changed is not the desire, but its velocity and weight—its constant, seductive pressure.

Decades ago, when I was an occasional newspaper columnist, I would look forward to publication day and the quiet satisfaction of seeing my work in print. How many people read it, I never really knew—though from time to time a letter to the editor would arrive to explain my many deficiencies. That lack of immediate feedback did not diminish my desire for recognition, but it did keep it in check. Today, feedback comes instantly and incessantly. We track its rise and fall as if it were a stock portfolio, and far too easily allow our sense of worth to rise and fall with it.

A passage in Paul’s letter to the Philippians tells us that God, incarnate in Jesus, emptied himself—taking on the fullness of human life without clinging to divine status. One implication of that mystery is this: he had no need for recognition to sustain his identity. Freed from that need, he was able to engage others without discrimination and to restore what was broken as a gift of grace—not something measured by approval, attention, or acclaim.

It took his disciples a long time to understand that laying aside the need for recognition is essential to being fully present as agents of God’s healing and redeeming love. Anyone who has read Paul’s letters knows he never entirely set aside his own ego—but he tried, and perhaps came closer than most of us.

Among the medieval saints, Francis of Assisi may have understood this most clearly. He taught his followers that recognition is of little importance compared with the fullness of what God enables us to be. It is a lesson that should resonate with us today.

Martin Luther King Jr. was surely a man of considerable ego, and he was not immune to the satisfactions of recognition. Yet as he approached the end of his life, his words suggest that he had come to see how unimportant such recognition was compared with the work God had given him to do.

That is a lesson we might take into Holy Week.

Would I like to have tens of thousands of subscribers on Substack? Of course I would. I do not, and likely never will. What I continue to learn—sometimes reluctantly—is that the numbers do not count. I am called only to offer what I can, and then let it go.

It helps, I suppose, that my old friends Fred  and  Russ  ––  earnest  right  wingers —rarely fail to puncture whatever ego I have managed to inflate. It is probably a good thing for anyone who ventures into the public square to have a Fred or a Russ close at hand.

And now, for Holy Week.

Bret Stephens is a highly paid conservative columnist for The New York Times. His opinions I generally find tolerable and, at times, useful in sharpening my own thinking. But his column of March 25, 2026, is baffling.

He argues that the war with Iran—measured against similar conflicts—is going just dandy: tactically precise, efficient, and mercifully light in American casualties. One is left to wonder whether he is looking through the wrong end of the binoculars.

The facts he cites may be accurate in narrow military terms. Beyond that, the argument collapses. This war was initiated in violation of American law requiring congressional authorization. It proceeds without a coherent objective—sustained instead by a shifting set of rationales that change with each presidential explanation.

The claim of an urgent nuclear threat is equally unconvincing. By the assessment of Trump’s own intelligence community, Iran posed no imminent danger and lacks the capacity to produce a nuclear weapon in the near term. Even the materials it possesses are now buried beneath the rubble created by American bombs—hardly an imminent strategic threat.

To compare this plainly unlawful war with past American conflicts that have cost hundreds of thousands of lives is not analysis; it is evasion. Each war stands or falls on its own merits. Historians may compare them; they do not justify one by pointing to the greater failures of another.

Yes, the bombing campaign has been precise—so far. It has inflicted damage that may take years to repair. But history offers a consistent lesson: killing leaders, destroying infrastructure, and inflicting civilian casualties rarely produce submission. They harden resistance. Even Iranians who oppose their theocratic regime are unlikely to surrender their national identity or their deep Persian pride. Gratitude to the United States is not a plausible outcome.

Mr. Stephens also downplays the global instability this war has unleashed. He notes that oil prices were higher during parts of the Obama administration without lasting harm. The comparison is misplaced. This conflict has not merely raised prices; it has destabilized supply chains and injected volatility into nearly every sector of daily life.

Nor should it escape notice that carefully timed announcements from the White House have triggered sharp market swings, allowing a small number of well-positioned actors to reap enormous profits, while the broader public absorbs the uncertainty. Markets can tolerate risk; they cannot function on caprice.

Which brings us to trust. The president’s erratic conduct—compounded by the uneven competence of his cabinet—has diminished the standing of the United States among its allies and peers. More troubling, it has eroded confidence in the reliability of American commitments. The result is not simply diminished influence, but a growing suspicion that American power is being exercised without discipline or restraint.

No, Mr. Stephens: this “splendid little war” is not going well. It has diminished the nation’s credibility, unsettled the global order, and will require years of steady leadership to repair the damage.

We had a long and thoughtful discussion recently about DEI—diversity, equity, and inclusion. What follows are my reflections, based more on experience than on any in-depth academic study.

For all the enormous progress the United States has made over the past 150 years in addressing systemic racism, it still exists—perhaps in more subtle forms than in the days of slavery, the Black Codes, the Chinese Exclusion Act, and similar injustices.

White privilege—particularly male white privilege—is not simply an aphorism used by liberals to explain every hint of discrimination. It is real. For many whose minority status is readily visible, it has been extraordinarily difficult to gain access to the best educational opportunities and the possibility of a stable life within the middle or upper-middle class. Since the Civil Rights Act of 1965, we have become more aware of how deeply embedded habits and practices continue to perpetuate inequality.

DEI was never intended to cast blame or aspersions on white people in general, or white men in particular, despite claims to the contrary. Rather, it was an acknowledgment that we still have a great deal of work to do before our society is truly open and equitable for all.

One of the problems with something like DEI is that it can acquire a kind of fashionable popularity. Public, private, and charitable organizations were quick to adopt the language and announce their commitment. Leadership became fluent in DEI terminology and often introduced ambitious-sounding initiatives. But for many organizations, that was largely where it ended. Employees recognized these trends as passing fads. So long as the expected language was repeated, little truly changed.

To be sure, some organizations made visible efforts to round up individuals from underrepresented groups—qualified or not—and then called it done. But that was never the purpose of DEI.

Organizations that approached DEI with integrity sought something more meaningful. They worked to ensure that barriers—both visible and invisible—were removed, and they actively encouraged applicants from historically excluded groups. Some also began to recognize that traditional measures of merit—such as standardized test scores or degrees from elite institutions—are not always reliable predictors of future success. Other, more meaningful measures likely exist, though I do not claim to know what they are.

There has also been a growing recognition that obstacles to higher education have prevented many capable students—especially those from lower-income and minority backgrounds—from realizing their intellectual and social potential.

DEI, at its best, was intended to address these deeper issues. It was never meant to be an overnight solution, but rather a long-term effort to reshape our common life—so that diversity, equity, and inclusion would become ordinary features of American society rather than contested ideals.

In recent years, however, there has been a strong counter-movement. Some—particularly within the MAGA movement, and many white men—perceive DEI not as an effort toward fairness, but as a threat, especially to long-standing assumptions about who is most likely to succeed or to be selected. For some, this feels like a loss of position or identity.

I believe we will move through this period, though not easily. Demographic changes alone suggest that the United States is becoming a nation in which no single group holds a majority. That reality brings both promise and anxiety. One can point to other nations struggling with similar transitions, but that can never serve as an excuse for not addressing them.

These are simply my reflections. I do not expect everyone to agree. I offer them only as a contribution to an ongoing and necessary conversation.

A guest essay in the March 13 edition of The Washington Post by Carl R. Trueman asserted that the future of Christianity is tied to a conservative evangelical interpretation of Scripture used to authenticate its position on issues of human sexuality. His principal concern was the position on transgender rights expressed by Texas Democratic Senate candidate James Talarico, which he argued is antithetical to the future of Christianity.

I needed time to reflect on Mr. Trueman’s opinion column before writing a response. His criticism of James Talarico’s understanding of what it means to follow Jesus in the way of the cross reminded me of similar arguments three decades ago, when those holding conservative views on homosexuality sought to justify them by appealing to biblical authority. That was not the future of Christianity then, nor is it now.

To follow Jesus in the way of the cross is to engage the human condition wherever and however we encounter it, guided as best we can by the commandments to love God, ourselves, and our neighbors—the neighbor often being someone who is a stranger, disliked, or distrusted. It is to love one another as Jesus has loved us, demonstrating that love in both word and deed. To follow Jesus in the way of the cross is not to be anxious about the future of Christianity. Its future is in the hands of God and reaches to eternity.

With that as a starting point, we should remember that social and political norms have always defined what is considered acceptable in every society since the beginning of recorded history. These norms are generational and always evolving—sometimes slowly, sometimes with dramatic change. In every generation, conservative voices declare prevailing norms to be the standard by which religious orthodoxy must be judged. That happens repeatedly. Yet to follow Christ in the way of the cross means that social and political norms must always be subject to the test of God’s revealed word, particularly as revealed in the Word made flesh, Jesus Christ.

Mr. Trueman assumes the biblical validity of his social norms and then seeks to force Scripture agree. He can make this sound convincing and logical, but that is not how it works. It is his social norms that must be examined in light of God’s eternal word. That leads to several observations about his treatment of transgender persons.

First, he speaks of “transgenderism.” When “-ism” is added to a noun, it often implies an ideology. I see little evidence that such an ideology exists in the way he suggests. Rather, there are people whose lived experience involves questions of gender identity.

Second, while biological norms show that most people are born male or female and are heterosexual, scientific research also demonstrates a broader spectrum within human development. Some people are born homosexual, and others experience variations in gender identity. This diversity appears within the normal distribution of human biology. Such persons are not freaks, aberrations, or sinners who must repent of the way they were born. They are human beings capable of living fully within the Christian faith without denying who they are.

To deny a transgender person access to medical care that can bring physical and psychological unity to their life is, I would suggest, an offense against the law of love that lies at the heart of the Gospel.

In any case, one’s position on this difficult and controversial issue does not determine the future of Christianity, nor does it determine who belongs within it. The future of Christianity rests in God’s hands alone.

A final word: this is a difficult issue in part because it requires ordinary people to grapple with developments in genetics and human biology that lie far beyond most of our training or education. Such discoveries challenge long-held assumptions about how the world works. That process is never easy and often unsettling. Yet Christians who seek to follow Jesus in the way of the cross can trust that the Spirit will guide us as we find our way through it.

—

Christianity’s Future is Not…

It is…

A guest essay in the March 13 edition of The Washington Post by Carl R. Trueman asserted that the future of Christianity is tied to a conservative evangelical interpretation of Scripture used to authenticate its position on issues of human sexuality. His principal concern was the position on transgender rights expressed by Texas Democratic Senate candidate James Talarico, which he argued is antithetical to the future of Christianity.

I needed time to reflect on Mr. Trueman’s opinion column before writing a response. His criticism of James Talarico’s understanding of what it means to follow Jesus in the way of the cross reminded me of similar arguments three decades ago, when those holding conservative views on homosexuality sought to justify them by appealing to biblical authority. That was not the future of Christianity then, nor is it now.

To follow Jesus in the way of the cross is to engage the human condition wherever and however we encounter it, guided as best we can by the commandments to love God, ourselves, and our neighbors—the neighbor often being someone who is a stranger, disliked, or distrusted. It is to love one another as Jesus has loved us, demonstrating that love in both word and deed. To follow Jesus in the way of the cross is not to be anxious about the future of Christianity. Its future is in the hands of God and reaches to eternity.

With that as a starting point, we should remember that social and political norms have always defined what is considered acceptable in every society since the beginning of recorded history. These norms are generational and always evolving—sometimes slowly, sometimes with dramatic change. In every generation, conservative voices declare prevailing norms to be the standard by which religious orthodoxy must be judged. That happens repeatedly. Yet to follow Christ in the way of the cross means that social and political norms must always be subject to the test of God’s revealed word, particularly as revealed in the Word made flesh, Jesus Christ.

Mr. Trueman assumes the biblical validity of his social norms and then seeks to force Scripture agree. He can make this sound convincing and logical, but that is not how it works. It is his social norms that must be examined in light of God’s eternal word. That leads to several observations about his treatment of transgender persons.

First, he speaks of “transgenderism.” When “-ism” is added to a noun, it often implies an ideology. I see little evidence that such an ideology exists in the way he suggests. Rather, there are people whose lived experience involves questions of gender identity.

Second, while biological norms show that most people are born male or female and are heterosexual, scientific research also demonstrates a broader spectrum within human development. Some people are born homosexual, and others experience variations in gender identity. This diversity appears within the normal distribution of human biology. Such persons are not freaks, aberrations, or sinners who must repent of the way they were born. They are human beings capable of living fully within the Christian faith without denying who they are.

To deny a transgender person access to medical care that can bring physical and psychological unity to their life is, I would suggest, an offense against the law of love that lies at the heart of the Gospel.

In any case, one’s position on this difficult and controversial issue does not determine the future of Christianity, nor does it determine who belongs within it. The future of Christianity rests in God’s hands alone.

A final word: this is a difficult issue in part because it requires ordinary people to grapple with developments in genetics and human biology that lie far beyond most of our training or education. Such discoveries challenge long-held assumptions about how the world works. That process is never easy and often unsettling. Yet Christians who seek to follow Jesus in the way of the cross can trust that the Spirit will guide us as we find our way through it.

—

Two previous columns have explored scapegoating as an ancient and well-documented process by which blame is assigned to a vulnerable victim held responsible for troubles threatening the equilibrium of a community—or the power and position of those in authority. As pervasive as this practice has been, and still is, it can never achieve its purpose. It never truly restores order. It only generates a continuing cycle of violence and victimization.

For scapegoating to succeed, a victim must be found guilty of behavior deeply offensive to the values of the community. The victim must be portrayed as an outsider—an alien in some way. By purging the community of the victim, order appears to be restored, at least for a time.

The life, death, and resurrection of Jesus Christ expose the powerlessness of scapegoating. They also reveal the way those who follow Jesus in the way of the cross are called to resist its seductive promises and to confront, with peaceful courage, the evil it produces.

If this sounds familiar, it is because it reflects, however crudely, the work of René Girard (d. 2015). Girard began as a literary historian but became a profound anthropologist and theologian whose work on scapegoating has influenced many, myself included.

Girard often turns to ancient myths to illustrate his point, but the lesson may be clearer when we look at more recent history.

The Salem witch trials of 1692–93 led to the deaths of twenty people accused of witchcraft—alleged, but never proven. A climate of fear—disease, conflict with Native peoples, economic hardship, and a weakening social order—created the conditions for the community to search for someone to blame. In a kind of collective hysteria, suspicion fell upon men and women whose eccentricities set them apart. They were innocent victims, burdened with moral guilt that justified their deaths as a necessary sacrifice to restore equilibrium. The reasoning was simple: if these “witches” had not caused our suffering, we would not be in distress. Therefore, they had to be eliminated. This is scapegoating in its classic form.

Jewish communities, for centuries, have been among the most frequent and vulnerable targets of scapegoating throughout Europe. There distinctive clothing, unique language, and commitment to ancient Jewish practices or enough to set them apart and target them as the scapegoat to be accused of responsibility for all manner of violence and other troubles.

In the United States, we have found our own victims: American Indians, people of color, immigrants fleeing hardship, and others like them including Jews. Again and again, they have been made to bear blame for conditions for which they held no responsibility, declared guilty, and punished so that the dominant society might imagine itself restored to equilibrium.

It is difficult to comprehend, but ordinary people can participate in the most grotesque forms of scapegoating while believing they have purged threats to their well-being. It is estimated that nearly 4,000 Black men and women were lynched in the United States, with the practice peaking in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries and continuing into the 1940s. Families could gather to witness a lynching and return home with a sense of self satisfied reassurance that a perceived contagion had been removed.

Jesus himself became the victim of scapegoating. He was condemned for all the usual reasons, yet the authorities could not demonstrate his guilt for the unrest among the people. Even the governor found no just cause to condemn him. He was not only an innocent victim; he was The innocent victim. And yet he refused the role assigned to him. He did not defend himself. He did not condemn those who condemned him. In Luke’s Gospel, he prays from the cross, “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.” In his resurrection, he reveals the futility of scapegoating and the emptiness of sacrificial violence. More than that, he shows that following him in the way of the cross is the only path to lasting hope and to a renewed capacity for peace and mutual concern.

This means that those of us who claim to be Christians are called to reject every form of scapegoating—to refuse participation in mob hysteria demanding vengeance, and to stand with peaceful courage against every force that pushes in that direction.

The old proverb is right: it is easier said than done. Some of the first words we learn are, “I didn’t do it,” “It’s not my fault,” and “It isn’t fair.” The impulse to shift blame is learned early and never entirely leaves us. Even as we mature and become more sophisticated in our thinking, the search for someone or something to blame remains close at hand. We are quick to punish others in the hope that doing so will restore order to our lives. To be sure, some are genuinely guilty, and some are the proximate cause of harm. But that very truth tempts us to assign guilt where it does not belong.

To follow Jesus in the way of the cross is to confess our participation in scapegoating and to recommit ourselves to a life shaped by justice, mercy, and humility before God. It leaves no room for the easy condemnation of others. It also calls us to confront public policies, public opinion, and public actions that depend upon scapegoating—and to do so by refusing to cooperate with them.

In recent weeks, a striking example of this has emerged in the response of many people in Minneapolis and Saint Paul, who have refused to participate in the victimization of immigrant communities. Through peaceful demonstrations, they have resisted being drawn into self-righteous violence. Through organized efforts, many have sought to provide safety and protection for vulnerable neighbors. Were they perfect? Certainly not. They are, like all of us, human. Nevertheless, their actions offer a compelling example of people—whether consciously or not—walking in the way of the cross.

As Holy Week approaches and Easter draws near, this lesson deserves our attention. We will celebrate with joyful hymns and loud alleluias, but the deeper call is to follow Jesus by refusing to cooperate with scapegoating in any form—especially when it appears at the national level.