Article
AI
Culture
Digital
3 min read

Am I a project or a person?

What we lose when we AI tempts us to refuse our limits
A multiple exposure image shows a womans head and shoulders looking ahead, to the sides and above.
Alex Bracken on Unsplash

Geoffrey Hinton, the so-called “godfather of AI,” was recently asked by a Financial Times journalist to consider a future in which human beings live among robots and gradually morph into cyborgs, their lives prolonged by artificial parts and chemical enhancements. His reply was strikingly casual: “What’s wrong with that?” Thankfully, his answer reflects a minority view today, but one that will grow significantly in both plausibility and appeal as the culture of Silicon Valley – animated by transhumanist ambitions and backed by enormous capital and influence – seeps into the ‘social imaginary’ of the West.  

In an individualist culture of ‘quantified selves,’ where self-optimization and wellbeing dominate the horizon of desire, it will take little to sell such enhancements, which will be promoted as not merely the means of surviving ‘rogue AIs’ but the way to flourishing. 

But this represents a profound distortion of what flourishing has meant across centuries of philosophical and theological reflection: the actualization of our true nature through the practice of virtue (Aristotle) and living in alignment with our proper end (telos), which is communion with God (Aquinas). Once tethered to a moral and spiritual vision of the human person, flourishing is fast becoming a runaway concept, thinned out on the anvil of individualism and moral autonomy, and conflated with the promise of expanding ad infinitum one’s capacities, choices, and life itself. It is precisely this  hyperindividualist vision that OpenAI CEO Sam Altman has in mind when he speaks of his mission of enabling ‘maximal human flourishing’.  

But the ethical and anthropological crisis we are entering cannot be resolved by neuroscience, secular anthropologies, let alone economics alone, but only through engaging with Christian anthropology. At the heart of the Christian faith stands the claim that Jesus Christ is the archetypal human, the “second Adam,” in St Paul’s phrase. Not simply in the sense that he is a morally and spiritually exemplary figure whose ethical teaching we might want to consider. But, more boldly, in the sense that all human beings - past, present, and future - are mysteriously caught up, redeemed and fulfilled in the person Christ. In his life, work, death, resurrection and ascension, humans are given the ultimate revelation not only of God, but also of what it means to be truly human and flourish. This means, among other things, that our limitations as creatures are not problems to be overcome but gifts to be honoured, the thresholds where God embraces us in grace. Our dependence and vulnerabilities are not defects to be corrected but the very conditions for fulfilling our humanity, in community, through the practices of faith (trust), hope, and love. 

Of course, there are distortions and privations that disfigure human life – disease, cruelty, injustice – which rightly summon humanity to acts of repair and resistance. As a product of God-given creativity, modern medicine and its many cures to previously fatal diseases is a huge blessing. But as biotechnology and AI continue to advance, the line between therapy and enhancement, healing and augmentation will likely become increasingly blurred. 

Against visions of human nature as infinitely plastic and of human beings as projects of self-invention, the Christian faith offers the liberating message that humanity is created, incorporated and will be fulfilled in Christ. To be human, then, is not to upgrade oneself without end to avoid vulnerability and death, but to be drawn into Christ, who died but was raised to life and glory. It is to find in him, and to practically outwork the measure of true, mutual flourishing, for the sake of the world. Only from this centre can we wisely discern how to receive and harness the gifts of technology without buying into its counterfeit promise of salvation. 

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Article
Community
Culture
Football
Friendship
4 min read

As the season starts, here's why fans go mad for football

The game is part of life, but not all of life

Henry Corbett, a vicar in Liverpool and chaplain to Everton Football Club.  

  

A football stand displays a long banner with text on it.
Everton F.C.

“I hate football,” said the mother of two mad keen footballing children. The clue to the hatred is maybe in the ‘mad keen’. Why do children and adults care so much about football? 

“That Champions League music is so pompous…!” 

“It’s only a football match! They make it too important. If their team loses then they are miserable for the whole weekend.” 

“We can’t plan holidays until the fixtures come out.” 

The money spent, the jobs refused, lost or short-changed, all because of football. A giant banner at a recent Everton home game read “I simply love you more than I love life itself”. 

And there is football manager Bill Shankly wisdom: “Football is not a matter of life and death. It’s more important than that.” At least that was a typical Shankly quip, hyperbole for effect.  

Why do some of us love football so much? 

It often goes back to childhood. Playing with mates, scoring a goal, saving a goal, enjoying the togetherness, the shared aim, the friendships formed. Then there’s that first experience of going to a match. Up the stairs and there before you is a great huge rectangular expanse of green grass. Back in the day, it was maybe not so green, but still way more impressive than your back garden or the local park. Then comes the drama, unscripted, of the game. The sways of emotion, the joy, the frustration, and all experienced as part of a bigger community. When you kick a ball with your mates aged 50, or go to a game aged 80, you are doing something that connects you with your childhood enthusiasm, joy and wonder. 

Then there are the family connections. You may have gone to that first match with your Mum, Dad, Grandad, older brother or sister. When Everton supporters were asked about their feelings at the last Premier League game at Goodison Park, again and again they referenced family members who they had gone to the match with. Some passed away, some no longer able to go, even some whose ashes were buried behind the goal. 

There are the great memories of games seen or even played in. That win from 2-0 down, that last minute goal, the euphoria of a Cup win against the odds. And the memories are shared ones, with family, with friends. Football can write some miserable scripts, 0-0, 0-1, 0-6, but it can also write some wonderful memorable dramas.  

Love for family, for friends, for a team, for players is a deep emotion and when that love is linked to victory or defeat the stakes are raised. 

There is another reason which can touch us all, football-lovers or football-haters. Deep down we all want to be winners in life, not losers. The feeling of victory, not defeat, is such a treasured one. And the win, or loss, is a shared one: we are part of a group together, an identity together. Love for family, for friends, for a team, for players is a deep emotion and when that love is linked to victory or defeat the stakes are raised. In life we want goodness to win over evil, kindness to win over cruelty. The reason every Church shows the symbol of the Cross is because there was the ultimate demonstration of purposeful love, the sacrifice for the sins of the world, down the ages, across the world. When the apostle Paul writes to beleaguered, persecuted Christians facing death at the hands of Emperor Nero, he tells them “We are more than conquerors,” more than winners.  

Football, playing or watching, taps into that deep feeling of victory. “We’re on the march with (manager’s name here!) army…. And we’ll really shake them up when we win the FA Cup…” When my team faced the prospect of relegation I wondered why I was feeling butterflies, and more than butterflies, in my stomach. Why did I care so much about this game of football, and the result at the weekend? Yes, because it affected people’s lives, because it would mean loss of income and job losses at the club if relegation happened. But also, because the feeling of defeat, of failure, would hang over us, and that feeling goes deep, to the pit of the stomach.  

So why do some of us care so much? Because football taps into deep feelings; of family and friendship, joy and elation, togetherness and identity, and that wonderful feeling of victory… or the sorrow of defeat. Those feelings go deep. The problem is that football, unlike the Cross, sometime delivers, but definitely doesn’t always. That’s a reason why the mum of those those two mad-keen football-loving children should try and make sure that her two sons have other interests besides football, another faith beside faith in their team. Football is part of life, but not all of life. I also hope she stops hating what can be a beautiful, enchanting, community-fostering game, with many a helpful story to tell. 

Support Seen & Unseen

Since Spring 2023, our readers have enjoyed over 1,500 articles. All for free. 
This is made possible through the generosity of our amazing community of supporters.

If you enjoy Seen & Unseen, would you consider making a gift towards our work?
 
Do so by joining Behind The Seen. Alongside other benefits, you’ll receive an extra fortnightly email from me sharing my reading and reflections on the ideas that are shaping our times.

Graham Tomlin
Editor-in-Chief